


Hostes in Aeternum

by germankitty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Community: hds_beltane, F/M, M/M, in parts epilogue-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 20:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 44,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4234965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/germankitty/pseuds/germankitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For centuries, Malfoys and Potters have either ignored each others' existence, or been outright enemies due to an everlasting curse. Nobody knows about this, or that the curse was put on an ancient family heirloom Harry wants to use for this year's Beltane ritual. When the old magic flares up, the course of history might be altered yet again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **_Author's Note:_** Historical AU. The main part of the story (interspersed with glimpses of present-time) is set in medieval England, France and Spain during the reign of King Edward III, just before the outbreak of the Black Death (about ten years into the Hundred Years' War) that cost the lives of at least a quarter of, but possibly up to half the population in Britain – close to four million people at the top end of estimates.
> 
> To preserve all our sanity, I've refrained from using "thee/thou" and so on, as Middle English was never my forte, so never fear you'll be drowned in bad Chaucerian prose. However, I did choose – for historical verisimilitude at least – to keep my characters' dialogue from being too modern, and all technology (even wizarding accomplishments) appropriate to the 14th century. Also, bearing in mind that according to HP canon, the Statue of Secrecy (i.e., the total separation of wizards from Muggles) didn't come into effect until the mid-17th century, there will be references to some common (Christian) practices and beliefs as well as the religious conflicts of the era. No disrespect is intended to Judaism, Islam, Wiccans/Pagans or the Catholic Church. 
> 
> I've tried to be as accurate as my own reading, data taken from Pottermore, the HP Lexicon and the Harry Potter Wikia, Quidditch Through the Ages and lots of Googling, could make this. (Here I should probably admit that I know enough French and Spanish to be reasonably certain the words and phrases I used in the story are correct, but my Latin is way too rusty and my Arabic/Greek/Hebrew knowledge all but non-existent, so any faults therein come from Google Translate and various online dictionaries.) Also, there’ll be notes at the end of each chapter to explain/translate some terms, historical facts (both from the real world and the Potterverse) as well as choices I’ve made to create this AU.
> 
> Written for HDS_Beltane 2015 on LiveJournal. (This version slightly edited/amended from the original.)
> 
> A million thanks to my beta, Candamira, for running this marathon with me. Her comments, suggestions and insights were invaluable and she's done a stellar job in general; all remaining faults are mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** Characters are the property of JK Rowling, et al. This was created for fun, not for profit.

  
_… I'm falling under your spell_  
_And if you could speak, what a fascinating tale you would tell_  
_Of an age the world has long forgotten_  
_Of an age that weaves a silent magic …_  
_"Granada", Spanish original written 1932 by Agustin Lara; English lyrics by Dorothy Dodd_  


__  
20 March, 1345  
**_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_ **

"Now, students – be careful! First to third years gather over here, fourth and fifth there, and remember, _only_ sixth and seventh years are allowed near the parapet!"  


_Dominus_ Jacobus Prewett's voice, amplified by a mild _Sonorus_ , boomed over the students assembled on top of the Astronomy Tower. They'd have to share, five or six to a compass or astrolabe, and he and the whole teaching staff would be kept more than busy trying to maintain order and to make sure that everyone would have their turn at the instruments. But it'd be worth the effort; to observe a triple planetary conjunction after an unprecedented several _days_ of lunar eclipses earlier during the month was a once-in-a-lifetime experience for all of them, teachers and students alike. _Magister_ Helios Sinistro, of course, was manning Hogwarts' main equatorium himself, as was his prerogative as the school's Astronomy professor – though he had promised to make his memories and notes available to the interested later so that his colleagues might have a closer look; for now, most of the assembled staff would have to make do with watching the event unaided. It was simply too dangerous to leave this large a group of students unsupervised in such cramped quarters, regardless that the school's staff had worked hard for the past week to expand and safeguard the observation platform as much as possible.

The sun had set, and in the rapidly-falling darkness the children shuffled into their preassigned groups, vying for room to work their equipment. Already Jupiter was becoming visible if one knew where to look, and Saturn wouldn't be far behind for once. Most were quite understandably excited, but not a few of them were frightened despite the professors' best efforts and all the proof the Astronomy teacher's records could provide that such conjunctions were recurring phenomena and _not_ a portent of doom. Unfortunately, it was a sad fact that superstition often ran as rampant among witches and wizards as it did among the Muggles. Certainly they were about to witness an unusual event, but not a sign of bad things to come – no matter what the centaurs or Muggles believed! 

As if on cue, someone behind the headmaster whispered anxiously, "But Magnus, what if it _is_ an omen …"

"Shush, Isobel. _Dominus_ Prewett said it's not, and he has yet to lead us astray!"

HeadmasterPrewett snorted to himself even as he cancelled his _Sonorus_. He'd recognized the voices, hushed though they were, of Slytherin students Magnus Gaunt and Isobel LeStrange. Dismissing them from his mind for now, Prewett turned his own eyes towards the planets rising in the southeast. Even to the naked eye, it was a magnificent sight in the clear springtime air. This far north, they were fortunate to be able to view any number of celestial events, like the last eclipse of the moon just two days ago. 

This rare alignment of Saturn, Jupiter and Mars in the eleventh house, though … despite himself, the headmaster shivered. He did _not_ believe in Divination – he just _didn't_!  
_  
*Well, and even in the unlikely event that I'm wrong after all, and it is a portent of some kind,*_ Prewett thought defiantly, * _the country's already at war with France, and has been these past eight years. Surely, any omen will only presage another great battle, not something more sinister!*_ Determinedly, he banished the traitorous and unwelcome thought, silently invoked Merlin and Morgana's help and crossed himself for good measure before concentrating once more on his charges.

The first students were already muttering in awe over their instruments as the two biggest planets slowly climbed above the horizon, one after the other. And at long last, close to midnight, the much smaller reddish pinpoint of Mars rose into view from behind the looming silhouette of the Forbidden Forest.

"I see them, professors!" exclaimed Guillaume Abbott, the seventh-year Ravenclaw Prefect as he looked up from the second-biggest equatorium and pointed. " _Domine_ Prewett, I can see all three planets!"

There was a chorus of delighted "ooohs" and "aaahs" as the students and teachers of Hogwarts observed the rare phenomenon with the help of a few vision-sharpening spells carefully cast by the school's Mediwizard and a couple of teachers; a few especially enthusiastic ones crouched down and lit their wands with low-powered _Lumos_ spells to scribble notes on scraps of parchment and small slates. Above them, the sky formed a canopy of stars, twinkling like diamonds on velvet, with the majestic orbs of Saturn, Jupiter and Mars glowing as jewels in the celestial crown.

Slowly, taking care not to jostle the dozen or so astrolabes, the students working a compass or accidentally shove someone against – or, all saints forbid, _over_ – the parapets, the young witches and wizards looked, and marveled, and switched places so that each and every one could have their turn, while Helios Sinistro also measured and calculated, dictating his observations to his eagerly scribbling senior apprentice in a low voice. 

It took a while, but eventually most of the students had looked their fill and were slowly herded down the stairs back to their sleep chambers by the Prefects. Only those especially interested in Astronomy, namely most teachers and one last group of students, were left, and the youngsters stepped up eagerly to the great equatorium. Among them was a quiet, plain-looking witch from Cornwall – Meliora Warne, fifth-year Hufflepuff and a gifted Arithmancer. Professor Sinistro kindly cast a temporary vision-sharpening spell on her and gestured for her to begin. The spell was unstable and would fade out soon, but in the absence of other means would do for now. With a timid smile, the girl bent over the instrument already adjusted towards the sign of Aquarius. She fumbled a little with the controls to fine-tune them to her requirements, and scribbled down her observations, frequently shifting her attention from the device to her parchment and back. Once she was done taking notes, she straightened slowly and gazed wide-eyed at the firmament where Mars, Saturn and Jupiter formed a true triple conjunction of superior planets – almost like pearls on a string. Suddenly, her whole body seized up as if someone had cast _Petrificus Totalis_ at her. Someone gasped in shock; whether teacher or student, nobody could tell afterwards. 

Then Meliora Warne started to speak in a deep, guttural voice not her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**  
> 
> 
> __  
> **A/N:**
> 
>  
> 
> _"Magister" and "Dominus" are Latin words for "teacher/master"; "Domine" is the vocative, the way how you'd address someone with this title._  
>  _Helios Sinistro = female version of Aurora Sinistra_  
>  _Astrolabe, compass and equatorium are medieval instruments used in Astronomy; while glasses and other lenses to enlarge things at close range already existed, far-seeing lenses (like in telescopes) hadn't been invented yet in the mid-fourteenth century._  
>  _There really were several eclipses and a conjunction of Saturn, Mars and Jupiter in the early 1340s. On 24 March, 1345, French physician Guy de Chauliac claimed the one on March 20 that year heralded the outbreak of the Black Death in Europe of 1346/7._
> 
>  
> 
> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1**   
__  
25 April, 2014  
**_1.1 - The Potters' house, Godric's Hollow_ **

"Why do we have to do this again?"

There were only four more days until Beltane, and Harry sighed at the petulant tone in Ginny's voice as he came into the spacious kitchen from inspecting the back yard. He wasn't quite uncharitable enough to call it a whine, but …did they really _have_ to have the same argument over and over again?

"Because this is a time for family." As far as he was concerned, it was the only reason that counted – or was needed. Ginny _knew_ how much 'family' meant to him, and that he'd take any opportunity to gather those he'd chosen as such around him. And if Harry's family nowadays included more than just his wife and children, Hermione, Ron, and however many other Weasleys who could manage to come, so much the better. _*Why can't Ginny accept that?*_ "Besides, it's our turn this year."

It wasn't as if she minded hosting large parties; he knew that, if anything, she was far more of a social animal than Harry. Only, Ginny preferred going out, attending glamorous social events whereas Harry detested those with a passion. Meeting with family and friends here, at the restored house in Godric's Hollow, was what _he_ liked, and he was damned if he let his wife's grumbling spoil the occasion for him!

"It's also traditional," he added more quietly. "You should know."

Ginny _did_ know; after all, she'd grown up in a Pureblood family, even if the Weasleys as a whole paid little more than lip service to the traditions. Sure, they'd have bannocks for Beltane, and roasted chestnuts at Samhain, but Christmas mince pies and Easter eggs always had been more special as treats … and with seven boisterous children to look after, Molly had had little time to observe all the niceties and trappings. 

She shrugged. "We were never observant, and I really don't see why you should be," she groused. "After all, it's not as if you've grown up with it." As soon as the words left her mouth, Ginny winced and cast a guilty look at her husband. "Sorry, I –"

Harry had paled at her careless remark. "Has it ever occurred to you that I might have, if my parents … or even Sirius! … had been around to raise me?" he finally said, the effort it cost him to keep his hurt and anger in check clearly noticeable in his stiff posture and overly-controlled voice. "It's not my fault I didn't know any of the traditions until Andromeda taught me."

Ginny turned away to hide her scowl. _*Damn that woman anyway!*_ She knew very well that the erstwhile Andromeda Black was the reason Harry had become interested in the old ways initially. It hadn't been surprising that Mrs Tonks wanted to teach Harry's godson about 'good' wizarding traditions; what had raised more than one eyebrow within their circle of friends and family was how much Harry had involved himself with the concept and procedures.  
_  
*If it weren't for Andromeda, none of this would be happening!*_ 'This' did not only mean the upcoming Beltane celebration; truthfully, Ginny rather liked having a party at their home, even if it was only for family and required some specific preparations. She usually enjoyed setting up seasonal activities for the passel of children that would be attending these events. But Teddy was at Hogwarts, sitting his O.W.L.s and unable to come, and fine, as the boy's grandmother Andromeda was welcome at the Potters' house whenever, but did Harry _have_ to include the rest of Andromeda's family?!? 

The War may have been over for fifteen years, but it was only recently that Andromeda had fully reconciled with her one surviving sister. Ginny supposed having Narcissa Malfoy over wasn't all that bad, given that she _had_ saved Harry that night in the Forbidden Forest, but must she really bring the Ferret and his family along, too? Worse, Albus and Rose were ecstatic at the idea of having the youngest Malfoy come along. 

Never in a million years had Ginny expected _that_ friendship to develop when the children met at preschool. She sighed. What was done, was done, and she'd just have to make the best of it. She'd survived one year at school under the Carrows; she could survive one day with the Malfoys in her home. Even if she would've preferred to attend the Ministry Spring Ball, wearing a new designer gown and sipping champagne. _*Maybe I could even have persuaded Harry to dance with me …*_

"Tell me again why we can't just attend the bonfire up on the Common?" 

Harry sighed. "Gin …I told you why. Several times, if I recall. It's more than dancing around the fire, it's about the blessings and everything else." 

She shot him a look. "Yes, but you have yet to convince me," she said crossly. "I just want to know why we can't just once have a small family gathering at home and then go out – say, to the Ministry Spring Ball, maybe?"

"You know I hate these formal affairs. It's bad enough that I can't get out of the annual New Year's bash; I won't waste my time with more if I can help it."

"Has it ever occurred to you that _I_ might like to attend more than one grand function a year?" she asked, trying to keep unnecessary sharpness out of her voice. "You barely accompany me to _my_ job-related parties‒"

"You cannot honestly believe that I'd ever enjoy being in the same room with a bunch of journalists!" Harry exclaimed.

"Not all of us are like Rita Skeeter," she replied, stung. While retiring from the Holyhead Harpies had been the right decision for the sake of her marriage, herself and the children, Ginny had to admit that _writing_ about Quidditch wasn't half as grand or exciting as actually _playing_ the sport had been … and that sometimes, she missed the public attention. 

Harry inclined his head in apology. "Granted, but way too many of your colleagues hang around me – okay, us – at these shindigs, just waiting for me to say or do something they can print the next day." He took a deep breath. "I know that I can't help being in the public eye due to my job, and I know you've earned your own celebrity, but let's please keep our private life just that – private." He smiled a little at Ginny's rebellious expression and reached over to touch her cheek. 

"Gin, if it's dressing up and a fine dinner you want, Seamus mentioned the other day that a new hotel opened last year in Connemara; apparently they have a very good restaurant." His smile deepened, became cajoling. "There may even be a bar with a dance floor. For afterwards."

Ginny huffed. "As if you'd ever make use of it."

"Well … I just _might_ be persuaded," Harry murmured, dropping a kiss on her hair. "Please, Ginny? Just the two of us, or maybe Ron and Hermione, or Neville and Hannah, if you'd rather have them …"

"I'll think about it," Ginny conceded. It wasn't what she really wanted, not the big, glamorous affair that the star-struck little girl still lurking somewhere in her psyche craved, but she'd take what she could get. If that meant an out-of-the-way place in Ireland, no matter how exclusive, rather than an elegant establishment in London or one of the capitals on the Continent, so be it. Harry was such a homebody, and so leery of his barely-diminished fame, she knew it was a major concession for him to offer her even that much.  
_  
*This is his dream – family and home. But what about mine?*_

Reluctantly, Ginny left Harry to his preparations, declining his help in the kitchen and the offer of hiring a Free Elf for the day. They could have refreshments catered – she _was_ a working woman, after all – and there'd be help available for the asking. Her mother's May wine was always delicious, and Molly would be glad to provide it. As for the rest … she may not be a 'domestic goddess' like Molly, but Ginny _was_ her mother's daughter. She had her pride. If Harry wanted a homemade party, that's what she'd give him to the best of her ability. _*And if I say so myself, my best may not be perfect, but it's still pretty damn good!*_

She started to gather ingredients from her cupboards. With close to thirty people expected on Beltane and an article on the new coach of the Wimbourne Wasps to finish before then, it'd be best to get her baking out of the way as soon as possible. Proper bannocks couldbe done the night before, but Ginny rightly suspected that no matter how many she made, a good portion would disappear in the hollow legs that were their children's stomachs. _*Beltane bread it is.*_

With a determined yet slightly rueful grimace, she flicked her wand at her kitchen mortar to set almonds to grind and started to measure and sift flour into a large bowl.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

__  
27 April, 2014  
 **1.2 - Diagon Alley, Gringotts  
**  
Two days later, Harry was still brooding over Ginny's careless remark despite himself. Sure, she'd apologized properly later that night, and he'd told her it didn't matter and had already forgotten about it… but it did, and he hadn't, not really. He'd never expected to become so invested in rather ancient wizarding traditions that not many families still observed fully, but when Andromeda had told him she planned to teach Teddy as soon as he was old enough, he'd agreed readily. After all, it was part of the boy's heritage – and a way for Harry himself to learn what he'd most likely would've been taught by his father and godfather.

With the ease of long practice, he suppressed the slight pang thinking of Sirius still caused him even after nearly two decades. He'd had his fill of Purebloods right after the War, and had embraced the rather casual approach the Weasleys took, but as the trauma slowly receded and he matured, Harry had become interested in the traditions Andromeda observed. He'd learned to value them over time, and discovered that some of the spirituality actually enriched his own life. 

It wasn't like joining a specific religion, not the way he understood it, but there was _something_ about the special magic and being connected to the land that spoke to Harry. It went beyond his oaths to serve and protect the wizarding world he'd sworn as an Auror; it was also more than the civic duty he owed the state of Great Britain and the Crown as a whole. Harry couldn't define it, but despite the Dursleys' attempts to crush any kind of belief in the supernatural or spiritual out of him, he accepted that there just might be forces at work in the world – and even the universe – that could and should be honoured throughout one's life … if only to give thanks for gifts one had received in life.  
_  
*Besides, the rituals and traditions are wholly benign. There's nothing to be afraid of, or unnatural about them. Not like the crimes against nature Riddle committed that were solely for his own benefit.*_

Even Hermione, determined part-agnostic though she was, had come around to his point of view eventually, and was seriously considering starting a campaign to introduce a Wizarding Customs class at Hogwarts, to be made as compulsory as Muggle Studies were nowadays. 

Of the four major feasts, Harry enjoyed Beltane the most, with its connotations of rebirth and renewal – even more so, in a way, than Yule. How could he _not_ , after seeing his family’s spirits when he’d walked to his death in the Forbidden Forest, and afterwards having Dumbledore’s ghost, or whatever it was, send him back from that eerily-white King’s Cross station to live on … and win? It was in no small part because of those encounters that he'd been able to do away with Voldemort for good fifteen years ago ‒ only a day after the holiday! 

He'd also realised that he liked Samhain the least. It was the time his parents had been killed, after all, and while he was all for honouring one's beloved dead, he'd seen enough funerals to last him several lifetimes. So, small wonder, really.  
_  
*Stop being maudlin,*_ he admonished himself. _*It's only two days until Beltane, and you have ladies to meet.*_ He couldn't help smiling as he walked up the steps to Gringotts' front entrance. The goblin guards scowled at him, but he only inclined his head politely in passing. It had taken some effort to get back into the goblins' good graces after the War, but time – and sharing the secret of _what_ exactly he'd removed from the LeStrange vault with Ragnok, Chief of the Horde – had eventually smoothed things over so that Auror Potter was once more a valued customer. _*Not that owning two of the oldest, and well-filled, vaults in the bank has anything to do with it, nooo.*_

Harry hid his cynicism behind a cheerful smile as he greeted both Andromeda and Narcissa in the marble entrance hall. The Sisters Black had become a formidable force in society in recent years, and Harry was well aware that one crossed them at one's own peril. In truth, he quite liked both of them, if for different reasons. Andromeda surprisingly had become a second mother figure to him, always ready with well-reasoned advice if he asked for it. Harry honestly appreciated Molly's generosity and effusive affection, but sometimes couldn't shake the feeling that she still saw Ginny as her baby girl and him as the scrawny eleven-year-old she'd first met at King's Cross Station all those years ago. He wouldn't want to miss Molly's unstinting love for the world, but sometimes he couldn't help wishing she'd remember that Ginny and he were in their thirties, seasoned professionals and had three children of their own.

Andromeda, on the other hand, had met him when he was already of age, been heavily involved in fighting a war, and afterwards was sharing the upbringing of her grandson. To her, he was an adult, and got treated as such. Harry found it quite a refreshing contrast. 

As for Narcissa … well. He'd spoken out on her behalf at the Death Eater trials, and achieved a suspended sentence for her. Furthermore, due to his testimony Draco had been sentenced to just a year's prison term and another three under house arrest. Only Lucius was still in Azkaban and would remain there for five more years. What had begun as a civil exchange of thank-you notes in the aftermath of the trials had slowly evolved into a surprisingly cordial association with the Malfoy family. 

He and Draco might never exactly be friends, but their sons were … and Narcissa was still helping him navigate safely through wizarding society. His smile widened as he noticed the unobtrusive once-over she gave him as they shook hands. It had taken a lot of effort and subtle guidance on her part, but it had finally penetrated his thick skull that proper manners and a neat, dapper appearance wasn't something to haul out just for official functions, weddings and funerals. Regardless of Lucius' politics, Narcissa _had_ moved in the first circles, and the lessons she'd taught him since the War were still standing him in good stead now that he was yea-close to becoming the youngest Head Auror in living memory.

"Shall we go, ladies? I'm afraid my time is rather more limited than I'd hoped," he said after exchanging pleasantries with both women, politely ushering them towards the carts. They'd come to Gringotts to check the Potter and Black vaults for items to use in the Beltane ritual. Narcissa already had promised to bring flowers from the Manor's gardens, Andromeda was providing the athame she and Ted Tonks had bought when they'd first married, and Molly had volunteered to make the May wine. The Potters' was a young household, after all, and it was perfectly acceptable to supplement heirlooms they might find today with loans from friends and family. But Harry still hoped his parents and Sirius might have left him things that would suit.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

In the Potter vault, Harry went directly to a rosewood box he'd discovered on a preliminary foray. From it, he carefully unpacked a pale-green tablecloth made from finest Irish linen, edged all around by three inches of Chantilly lace and showing a simple cross-stitch pattern of yellow and white daffodils. "I found this among my parents' effects," he said, "and thought it would work for the altar. What do you think?"

Narcissa inspected the cloth. "This is rather lovely," she murmured. "Somewhat simplistic, but a fine fabric and very nice craftsmanship."

"My grandmother Evans made it," Harry explained quietly. "She used to keep a journal … the fabric comes from _her_ grandmother's trousseau, the lace edging is from her mother's wedding veil, and she herself did the embroidery when she was pregnant with my mum. She was sick a lot of the time, and needed something to keep her busy. She wrote that she always put it out for family gatherings at Easter."

"So it has family history, the colours are right, and while the flower motif is a bit of a stretch, season-wise, it's still appropriate for spring. It'll do," Narcissa declared. 

"So will this," Andromeda said, coming over with a large, heavy-looking vase she'd retrieved from a glass-fronted cabinet in one corner. It was made from a milky yellow material and was decorated with a relief of near-nude women. "Some good crystal here, and it's a wonderful colour."

"It's also somewhat risqué," Narcissa commented. "Really, Andi – dancing nymphs in a state of near-undress? There'll be children present!"

"Oh, pish. They've likely seen their mothers wearing as little or less on the beach, technically they’re bacchantes, not nymphs, and what could be more fitting for a Beltane fertility symbol?"

"Maybe, but still …" Narcissa frowned, turning the vase this way and that. 

"You've turned into a prude, Cissy."

"Better that than corrupt innocent minds!"

Harry decided to intervene before the sisters could seriously get into one of their frequent arguments where Andromeda's more liberal views clashed with Narcissa's Pureblood notions of propriety.

"The vase belonged to my mum's other grandmother," he said. "It was one of her wedding presents back in the 1930s, and was handcrafted by a famous French designer. Hermione looked it up and told me it's quite valuable nowadays."

Narcissa paused in her tirade and lifted an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Uh huh," he nodded. "I gather that they're still being manufactured and are rather expensive even when new, but an original, and in this particular colour … I think she mentioned the value's at least in the four figure-range. Galleons, too, not just pounds." Harry hid a smile when the polite look she’d given him so far turned calculating. He’d had a feeling that bit of information would impress Narcissa. Carefully avoiding Andromeda's dancing eyes, he added ingeniously, "Besides, I doubt the kids will look at the vase closely anyway. Well, Teddy might if he were coming, but he's fifteen already, so …"

"I don't want to know what my grandson may or may not be familiar with in regards to semi-nude females," Andromeda said primly, blithely ignoring her sister's muttered "Hypocrite!". Her lips were twitching, though. "We'll take it."

And that was pretty much _that_.

Harry bit back a grin of his own. "Right. Shall we go on then?"

They packed up both items, and stepped back out into the drafty tunnel. The goblin steering the cart quickly transported them even deeper until they reached the Black vault, number 711. Once inside, Harry stood back and let the two women search through the treasure trove of heirlooms.

"I seem to remember something …" Andromeda mused after a while, closing a domed iron-banded trunk with a loud 'snap' after a cursory glance-through. "Cissy, help me look for a small oak chest with brass fittings. You should remember which one I'm thinking of – grandfather Arcturus always kept it on the mantelpiece in his study." 

Narcissa paused her own inventorying. "Hmm ‒ about the size of a lap desk, with ebony inlays?"

"That's the one." The two started to rummage through the items in the vault's far-right corner. 

"I think I've found it," Narcissa said at last. "Is this the chest you mean?"

"It looks to be the right size and age, anyway. Harry, some help lifting, please?"

"Sure." 

As the retrieval of Hufflepuff’s Cup had taught Harry, they couldn't use their wands to Summon things in a high-security Pureblood vault, so he had to shift chests and books by hand until he could physically pick up the small box and carried it to an old trunk close to a sputtering torch. The wood was old and weathered, the metal bindings dull with age, but it was not terribly heavy, and the sliding lock opened with very little effort. Inside, on a bed of faded velvet, lay a chunky golden chalice. 

The three of them bent over the open chest to take a closer look. The cup was maybe ten inches high altogether and stood on a short, stocky base. The bowl was roughly tulip-shaped, had uncommonly thick walls compared to its overall weight, and the only adornment were some vaguely floral etchings on the inside and a narrow band of faded script around the rim that seemed to have been inlaid with now-tarnished silver.

"I don't know," Narcissa said dubiously. "It's certainly an antique, but looks rather crude; I find it not very attractive, to be honest." 

Privately, Harry had to agree

"Fourteenth-century work, if I'm not mistaken. Aunt Walburga locked it up here as soon as she could," Andromeda murmured. "I don't know what it is about this chalice, but …" She held her wand hand above it, careful not to touch, and let out a little surprised gasp. "Oh!"

"Careful, Andi!" Narcissa exclaimed, but when she saw that her sister wasn't being hexed or worse, she, too, let her hand hover over the chalice. "Merlin," she whispered. "There's some very powerful magic in this!"

Curious, Harry stretched out his own hand. As far as he was concerned, anything that Walburga Black had rejected almost _had_ to be something positive, but he'd learned the hard way to be wary of magical artefacts. Memories of wearing Slytherin's locket still had the power to make him break out in a cold sweat. He let his senses and magic flow towards the vessel, and almost immediately felt a wash of … well, _goodness_ was the only way he could describe it … seep into his body.

"Yeah," he breathed. "But I'd bet my Invisibility Cloak that whatever magic's in here won't harm us."

"Oh, definitely not," Andromeda said. "Cissy?"

"Indeed," Narcissa agreed after a few seconds before she reluctantly stepped back. "Shall we take it, then?"

"By all means!"

"Please." 

Harry gently closed the wooden box again and tucked it under his arm. The vase had been wrapped into the tablecloth and put into a padded satchel for safe transport, and he held all three items carefully on his lap as they rode the cart back to the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**  
> 
> 
> ****
> 
>   
>  __**A/N:** A picture of the  'Bacchantes' vase Harry found in the Potter vault can be seen [here](%E2%80%9D). It's vintage Art Déco, was made by René Lalique, and the median value of a signed 1932 original is $15,000/£10,000 … which, estimating a rough conversion of £5 to a Galleon, equals 2,000 Galleons. Expensive, indeed! :-)  
> Bacchantes are priestesses of the God Bacchus  
> 
> 
>   
>  **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**   
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**  
**Chapter 2  
__  
6 January, 1347  
**_Windsor Castle_ **

King Edward III of England and his Court were merrily celebrating the Feast of Epiphany. With the help of some subtly-applied spells, Bartholomew Selwyn and Aurelius Flint had contrived that one of Queen Philippa's chambermaids and the senior groom of the King's stables were named Lord and Lady of Misrule on this day, and thus ensured that the royal couple would stay in the castle's Great Hall for quite some time. Word had been passed to the King that the wizards of the realm desired a meeting with him and as many of the Court's knights that could be spared from the revelries. They'd all be at Windsor until Twelfth Night, but tonight had turned out to be convenient for most, so … here they were, gathered in one of the castle's smaller libraries, well away from the festivities.

This meeting was, by necessity, quite clandestine; while witches and wizards often mingled with the Muggle world, the ever-growing influence of the Church made it increasingly problematic for the King to openly associate with his magical subjects. Only his heir and most trusted courtiers even knew about the ties some of the most prominent families had to wizards – hence, Edward of Woodstock, the Prince of Wales, was acting in the monarch’s stead. Accompanying him were the Baron of Stafford, two Squib Knights of the Garter … and a Dominican priest who'd tagged along uninvited ‘to guard His Highness the Prince's immortal soul’. 

"What's afoot, Sire?" John de Grey, Baron of Rotherfield, asked jovially as soon as some footmen had finished providing flagons of ale and wine as well as platters of sweetmeats, nuts and fruit. They then closed the heavy doors and left the small group of nobles and wizards amongst themselves. "What's so important we had to leave before the mummery and dances were done with?"

"I know not, John," Prince Edward replied, with a half-playful scowl at the four richly-robed wizards standing in one corner of the room. He was barely grown into manhood, but still had a presence about him that easily dominated all eight men in the room. "My father's seneschal informed me that _Dominus_ Prewett and his deputy, _Magister_ Wulfric, have asked for this assembly."

"Wulfric?" De Grey asked curiously, turning towards the wizards. "I don't think we've met?"

"Not until today, my lord," a tall man with long greying hair and beard introduced himself, blue eyes twinkling. "Wulfric Dumbledore, at your service. I have the honour of teaching the art of Transfiguration at Hogwarts."

"That school for your kind?" Walter Paveley, one of the Garter Knights, inquired. Like de Grey, he was not magical himself, but as both a Squib and kin by marriage to the Peverel family he was better acquainted with wizards than most. "Isn't that up in Scotland?"

"It is indeed, my lord. Wizards and witches from all over the realm are being educated there, and have been so since the days of King Alfred."

"How, by all the saints, do you manage that, I'd like to know," the cleric wearing the cassock of the Black Friars muttered. "Those woad-stained savages won't even give their neighbours the time of day half the time, and yet your folk can send _children_ up there each year without bloodshed? How?"

"We teach everybody who is magical in Albion, my lord," _Dominus_ Prewett said softly, yet firmly. "English, Scottish, Welsh – even Irish, it matters not to us. We're all the same in the eyes of Magic."  
_  
Magister_ Dumbledore smiled, and the twinkle in his eyes intensified. "Although we must admit, ever since hostilities ceased these ten years hence it has become vastly more easy to travel back and forth."

The priest sneered and seemed about to make a scathing remark, but a look and headshake from Prince Edward made him back down. Instead, he turned towards the refreshments, filling a goblet and gulping the wine down with a scowl.

"Who is that fellow, and what's he doing here?" murmured Paveley to his fellow Garter knight. De Grey grimaced. 

"He's one of the Dominicans from Oxford," he replied _sotto voce_. "Name's Gaston de Nogaret, and he accidentally overheard LeStrange passing our message to the King. He invited himself along, and unfortunately he's just high-ranking enough that we can't kick him out without reason."

Paveley frowned. "De Nogaret? Any relation to …"

"Guillaume? Yes. Don't know the degree, but I've heard him brag more than once how his relative was instrumental in bringing down the Knights Templar in '14. Nasty business, that. What's worse, he seems to feel a need to follow in Guillaume's footsteps, seeing heresy in every corner."

"Heresy? It's been a century since the crusade against the Cathars, and after the Templars even the Beguines were disbanded by the Church decades ago. What other heretics except the occasional malcontent are left?"

John de Grey didn't answer, but sent a telling glance towards the group of wizards in the room. He knew, as did Paveley and the rest of the Prince's trusted men, that Prewett, Dumbledore and their fellows were as law-abiding and as trustworthy as any non-magical, but to people like this Friar Gaston … if men like him got their way, they'd probably even accuse _him_ of heresy, despite the fact that his magic-less family routinely swapped any magical children to the magical branch, the House of Mavros, merchant princes of Candia. 

Walter Paveley saw the look and interpreted it correctly. He rolled his own eyes. "What a cretin," he muttered. "I trust my Peverel connexions as much as, if not more than, members of my own family. An upstart like that should never be allowed to ‒" 

"Gentlemen, may I remind you that we're not here to discuss politics?" Prince Edward interrupted firmly. "I believe it's because _Dominus_ Prewett has important information for _all_ of us." The two knights bowed in silent apology, and the Prince turned once more towards the elderly scholar. "To business, then – Jacobus, why _have_ you called this assembly?" 

The headmaster of Hogwarts squared his shoulders and stepped forward, easily drawing all eyes towards him. "As you rightly assume, Sire, it's a matter of portent for all people of this blessed isle," he said, his voice lowering unhappily. "You see, a prophecy has been made."

"A prophecy? Surely you don't mean the gibberish that chit from Hufflepuff House spewed forth three years ago?" All eyes turned towards the new speaker, one Nicholas Malfoy. He was a relative newcomer to the Court, having risen fast among the King's advisors. The Malfoys had come to Britain with the Conqueror in 1066, but retained a closer connection with their French roots than most. Malicious tongues claimed that the current head of the family openly supported King Edward's claim to the French throne only because their holdings on the river Loire had been ravaged in the war the House of Plantagenet was waging with the House of Valois … and there certainly was some truth to that. But Malfoy was a wizard, a rich merchant and consummate politician, and had lost both his sons in the King's service but recently. He was therefore allowed some latitude.

"Indeed I do, Nicholas," Prewett said. "It has taken us until now to decipher it, but there can be no doubt – it _is_ a genuine prophecy."

"What was so complicated about it, I wonder?" De Grey asked. "Apart from the customary cryptic-ness, so to speak?"

Dumbledore coughed. "'Twould've been easier if the lass had at least spoken plain English or French, but no – whatever spirit possessed her felt it necessary to impart the message in Cornish. If it hadn’t been for Weasley, here, we'd still be in the dark."

The redheaded man in question smiled. "It was a stroke of luck that one of my retainers recognized it at all. His wife is Cornish, you see, and one of the few who still speaks the language. Even so, if it hadn't been for one of the good brethren at Glastonbury Abbey …" Perceval Weasley stopped short as he noticed the Black Prince raising a regal hand to halt his words. 

"Forgive me, Sire. It's a fascinating piece of scholarly endeavor, and I'm afraid I tend to get carried away by the mystery of it all." He shrugged deprecatingly, then drew a deep breath. "In short, the lass spoke the prophecy in her native Cornish, but complicated the matter by applying the grammatical rules of Arabic." 

"What? Why?" one of the knights wondered. 

"That, we know not. It is only due to Friar Lucas' knowledge of both languages that we managed to unlock the message at all."

"Well, let's hear it, then," commanded the Prince impatiently.  
_  
Dominus_ Prewett sighed and withdrew a small roll of parchment from his belt. Knights and wizards gathered closely around him to listen as he read out the formal record.

"On Sunday, the twentieth day of March in the year of Our Lord 1345, the maiden Meliora Warne of Trewortha, near Bodmin Moor in Cornwall, made the following prophecy in the hours between midnight and dawn at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry:

'A great evil will rise in the east. It will not pass until the moon darkens after the summer solstice four turns hence, and it will kill wizard and Muggle alike with no distinction. Four times four moons before that, two knights shall quest to the place where four waters become one to seek out the stern master who is lost to Albion, he who dwells in a threefold house. One knight will be a leader of armies, and the other bear the sign of the dragon, and they must leave once the spring equinox has passed. They must first seek the warrior knights' treasure where eleven-score of innocents were slain, and then carry it to the master. When truce of fast prevails, star and messenger will join them at the master's house and help with ancient lore. Dragon and warrior must then bring the treasure to Ynis Afallach where they shall bear it through the maze to the Tor's peak on Beltane night, to anoint the land with what was made by master's craft, messenger's skill and star's guidance'."  


There were a few minutes of silence as the assembled men tried to parse what they'd heard. At last, Paveley blurted out what the others were clearly thinking. "What in Saint George's name does that mean?"  


_Magister_ Dumbledore spread his hands in an 'I-don't-know' gesture and shrugged apologetically. "We cannot be sure. Some of it we've been able to decipher – this great evil may well be a plague of sorts. Reports we've received just a few days ago from our, erm, associatesin Bulgaria and Constantinople seem to point in that direction, and a plague _would_ strike indiscriminately." There were grim nods all around. "The time is also rather clear – the prophecy was made three turns – that is, years – ago, so this quest for a preventative, or at best, a cure, must start right after the equinox in late March, and be finished by Beltane next year."

Prince Edward steepled his fingers against his lips, thinking it over. "That seems … logical," he mused. "Very well. What else?"

John de Grey had picked up the prophecy transcript and was reading through it again. "A quest … two knights must go _somewhere_.Where four waters become one … what place might that be? A lake, or the sea?"

Headmaster Prewett casually Summoned a large map showing the European mainland from one of the cabinets and unrolled it on a table, adding a light Sticking Charm to keep it open. He didn't notice, or else chose to ignore, the priest's grimace at the minor display of magic. "We've looked at dozens of maps, and the consensus among us is that the prophecy most likely refers to the city of Granada," he explained, pointing at the relevant area of the Iberian peninsula. "Four rivers conjoin there before they reach the sea." 

"Which might fit our purpose," Weasley exclaimed. "Doesn't it?"

After perusing Prewett's map, most present nodded.

 _Magister_ Dumbledore's blue eyes began to twinkle. "Now that I think of it, there's something else that speaks for Granada," he said. "One of my correspondents, Omar Shafiq, mentioned a few months ago that there's one Abbas al-Bedali teaching Alchemy and healing at the city's _madrasa_. That is a kind of religious university," he explained for his less-scholarly company's benefit.

"And that concerns us how?" Paveley asked.

"Well … if my suspicions are correct, some of us might know him under a different name. Or names, rather."

"Stop being cryptic, Wulfric," the Headmaster said with a rare show of irritability. "If you know the man's identity, just tell us!"

Dumbledore gave a slight bow and smiled. "As you wish. However, I need to be rather specific about his background ‒ if I may?” He received an impatient signal to proceed. “The surname al-Bedali in Arabic means 'from Bedale'," he began.

"Bedale? As in _our_ Bedale, up in Yorkshire?" Prince Edward interrupted incredulously.

"I believe so, Sire," Dumbledore said.

"'Lost to Albion'! That's what this part means," John de Grey exclaimed.

Dumbledore inclined his head in assent. "Indeed. Also, Abbas is an Arabic name meaning 'austere', 'stern' … or even 'severe'," he continued with a sly wink at Weasley, who began to sputter almost immediately.

"Severe? Wulfric, are you telling us that this … this Abbas al-Bedali might be Severus apElain? That Potions prodigy from … Yorkshire …" His voice shifted from incredulity into awed realization. "Oh my."

"He certainly seems to fit the bill, no?"

"Why would a Welshman first move to Yorkshire, then to Andalucìa, though?" de Grey wondered.

"He wasn't born Welsh, _nor_ was his name always apElian," Paveley grumbled. "On the contrary, his father was one Tobias Sneap, a shipwright from Rye. He was caught poaching deer on our lands several times, and was ultimately hanged as a repeat offender. If I remember correctly, the mother, Eliana, then packed up and moved back north to stay with her remaining family."

"Eliana ha-Nasi, as she called herself before her marriage, was an accomplished witch," Prewett recalled. "She must've passed on her talent to her son."

"He certainly didn't get it from his father; Sneap was as ordinary as they come," Paveley commented.

"The mother's name seems to indicate she was a Jewess," the Prince of Wales said with a frown. As if being a witch wasn't suspect enough these days! 

"Not quite; the family had converted during the unpleasantness at York fifty years ago," Dumbledore reassured him. "While I know not how he came to live in Andalucìa, I surmise that it is a certain familiarity with this background which allows Severus, as Abbas, to teach at a Moorish institution. The Emirs of Granada are surprisingly tolerant towards both Christians and Jews because they're all what they call 'Children of the Book'. Strangely, though, only Jews are allowed to attend their schools; I do not know why that is. Thus it might be easy for Abbas/Severus to pass as Jewish due to his family history, even if he did not presume to adopt the name his mother chose – ha-Nasi means 'prince', after all."

"It also makes sense out of the 'threefold house' part," Prince Edward said slowly. "A Christian living among Moors, pretending to be a Jew …" 

"By Saint George, it's all coming together," Paveley breathed.

"Yes. And Ynis Afallach is, of course, Avalon – which is reputed to be near Glastonbury Tor," Headmaster Prewett concluded.

More nods of assent from everybody. "Fine. That's when and where sorted. Which leaves us with … who and what?" asked the Prince.

The third courtier, who'd remained silent until now, spoke up. "Finding two knights should be easy enough – we just have to determine whose arms depict a dragon, and for the second select a likely officer in His Majesty's service."

"My dear Stafford, I could name at least a dozen men offhand who'd fit either of those criteria, if not both," Paveley said dryly. "Somehow, I don't think it'll be easy at all."

Baron Stafford glared at the rather mild rebuke, but chose to take a drink rather than reply.

"I've been thinking about that," Weasley murmured at length. "What if … what if this part doesn't refer to the knights' arms, but to their names?"

"Names? Hmmm …" De Grey's face slowly brightened. "Tell me – doesn't 'Harold' mean 'leader of armies' in the Saxon tongue?" 

"Yes," Paveley said, nodding in agreement. "And there aren't many knights with that name. In fact, I can think of only one."

"You can?"

The Garter Knight gave a brief bow to the Prince. "My cousin Lionel's grandson, Sire. If you'll recall, His Majesty gave him the accolade two years ago at Yule court." Actually, his relation to Lionel Peverel was more distant and complicated and spanned more than one generation, but Paveley was opting for simplicity over accuracy.

"What, Lionel le Potier?" scoffed Ralph de Stafford. His expression showed that he didn't think much of this man.

"I wish you wouldn't call him that, my lord," Paveley retorted stiffly. "Lionel is hardly a potter."

"He trades in pottery, doesn't he? And even tries to make some? So he may as well claim the name," the baron sneered. 

"He's just jealous that the Peverels’ trade relations with the Moors, the Venetians and China is creating Lionel a fortune," Malfoy murmured snidely in an aside to Weasley. "The good Baron is trying to duplicate his success with the cobblers on his estates, but they just can't compete. 'Tis nothing but sour grapes, I tell you." 

Weasley manfully swallowed a comment that Malfoy was only so dismissive of the Muggle nobleman because he hadn't been awarded a title himself yet and gave only a noncommittal grunt in reply. Whose grapes were the sourest, he couldn't tell.

Meanwhile, the discussion had gone on. "Sir Harold is well-named," Dumbledore explained. "I've taught him at Hogwarts, and he is brave, intelligent and resourceful, yet can be quite cunning if need be. If he weren't hampered by weak eyesight, he'd be a formidable asset to any man – King _or_ wizard. As he has so ably demonstrated on the campaign that earned him the accolade."

"Yes, I remember now. Let us assume he's one of the two, then," Prince Edward decided. "We do not have the time to search far and wide – March, and the spring equinox, will come sooner than we wish, and he seems capable enough. Does anyone know who might be the other?"

"If your assumption is correct, it'd be somebody named 'dragon'?" Stafford sneered, his expression openly disdainful. "Of all the ridiculous things! Surely that can't be a proper name – only a fool would saddle his son with such!"

"Mayhap my younger brother _was_ foolish, then," Malfoy said coldly. "His only son – now my heir – was indeed given the name Draco, after the constellation. It has long been a custom in his wife's family, and he was pleased to do her the favour." He gave a small bow to John de Grey, who nodded back. Ever since a de Grey ancestor had found Maia Mavros on the island of Candia and made her his bride despite her being a witch, all magical children born to the family were adopted into the Mavros clan and followed the same tradition. In return, the rare Mavros Squib became a de Grey. The younger Malfoy was thus distantly related to them by marriage.

Before Stafford could retaliate, Headmaster Prewett intervened in the brewing argument.

"Splendid – I had the pleasure of teaching young Draco as well, and know that in his own way he's as accomplished as Harold Peverel; let's hope they'll do well together on this quest.”

“But the Malfoys are merchants! He’s not a knight,” Stafford protested. 

“That’s easily remedied with a word to my father, the King,” Prince Edward said quellingly, settling the argument there and then lest Nicholas Malfoy take even bigger umbrage at the deliberate snub. 

The baron bowed and subsided, grumbling to himself about unwarranted privileges for the sake of expediency. He contented himself with a sideways glance at the cleric who just shrugged minutely. Each, for his own reasons, mightily disliked the favours shown to the wizards tonight and in general, but they could do nothing against the will of their Prince and liege. For now.

Prewett smiled, seemingly oblivious to the brewing undercurrents. “So, we now must instruct the lads on what they have to do, determine how they shall get to Granada safely, and decide how to convince Master Abbas to help us!"

With everybody in at least nominal agreement, wizards and courtiers put their heads together and discussed stratagems late into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**  
> 
> 
> ****
> 
> __**A/N:** The wizarding surnames were taken from JKR's list of the "Sacred Twenty-Eight Families" (see HP wikia). Nicholas Malfoy, who (according to Pottermore) profiteered during the Black Death in Britain, conveniently fit my time period. All the courtiers' names are real and come from the founding Knights of the Order of the Garter – obviously, any wizarding relations are my invention, as is the connection between Peverel(l) and Paveley.  
>  Dominican monks, known as Black Friars because of the colour of their habits, were the main driving force of the Inquisition.  
> Guillaume de Nogaret was real, and instrumental in building the heresy case that led to the downfall of the Knights Templar.  
> Meliora Warne is in fact a (made-up) Cornish name (JKR once stated a fondness for them. *hint, hint*)  
> Maia is a star in the Pleiades constellation, and Mavros is a real Greek word the meaning of which should become obvious later.  
> Candia is the old name for the Greek island of Crete.  
> Eliana is a female Hebrew name; the Welsh version Elian means "fawn" and apElian is thus "Son of (the) Fawn". 'ha-Nasi' is also Hebrew – used as both a (self-styled) title, meaning prince, and as a surname. (See what I did there? ;-)) It was created with the help of the good folks at the LJ community Linguaphiles. Thanks, guys!  
> As for Sneap … according to Merriam-Webster.com, the word means "to blast; blight with cold" (archaic), or alternatively, is English dialect for "to chide". Sound familiar, anyone? *whistles innocently*  
> The "unpleasantness in York" refers to the final expulsion of all Jews from that city in 1290; it was preceded by wholesale massacres and forced conversions to Christianity a century before. ****  
> Oh, and King Edward III was actually born at Windsor Castle, and it was one of his favourite residences; he usually held Christmas Court there.
> 
>  
> 
> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**  
Chapter 3**   
_1 May, 2014_   
**_The Potters' house, Godric's Hollow_ **

Beltane morning dawned bright and clear, and soon after mid-morning, the guests started to arrive. Despite her reluctance, Ginny had cleverly utilized a few Muggle shortcuts and thus quite outdone herself with preparing everything. There was a buffet table set up on the paved terrace at the back of the house, convenient to the kitchen and easily accessed from the area Harry had prepared for the celebration. The caterers had thankfully been on time, and everything looked as close to perfect as could be expected, with white linen on the conjured tables, and dishes and cutlery laid out close to the platters, serving bowls and chafing dishes. Housewife and cook _extraordinaire_ Molly Weasley might scoff at the store-bought nibbles, but she had to admit that as a working mother Ginny simply didn't have the time to cook for such a large group of people from scratch ‒ not even with magic to help her. 

Arthur's delight at getting to sample Muggle delicacies was infectious. 

"Have you tried these stuffed pastries, Mollywobbles? They're delicious!" He bit with relish into his third crispy triangle and nearly choked when he started to chew. "Spicy, though," he wheezed.

"They're called samosas, Arthur." Hermione handed him a glass of water and winked at her sister-in-law. "It's a type of snack from India, often eaten as appetizers. Here, try dipping them into the minted yogurt, or one of the chutneys – it'll take some of the heat away." She fondly directed her father-in-law to an array of bowls. 

"Mmm." He spooned some condiments onto his plate, dipped and took another, more careful bite. "Oh, that's wonderful!"

Looking skeptical, Molly chose a skewered bright-red prawn and swirled it through a dollop of yogurt. Her eyes widened as the spices exploded on her tongue. "Why, that … that's …"

"Great, yeah?" Ron grinned as he refilled his own plate with deep-fried curried cauliflower florets and a generous helping of mango chutney. "I even like the veg!"

Harry turned away from the ensuing good-natured debate when he heard the soft 'pops' of Apparition near the fence and the exuberant yells from Albus and Rose, already rushing forward to greet their best buddy, Scorpius Malfoy, who had arrived with his grandmother and the rest of the Malfoy family.  
 _  
*Well, at least most of them.*_ Somewhat to his surprise, Draco's wife was missing. He accepted their polite excuses and ushered the three adults towards the refreshments while the children dragged their blond friend off towards the other kids.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

Some time later, Al and Rose managed to spirit Scorpius into a corner of the garden, away from the group. They huddled behind some raspberry bushes, just hidden enough to be unobserved but not so much to make an adult suspicious, and finally got to ask their friend what they'd been dying to know ever since Aunt Andi and the Malfoys had arrived.

"Where's your Mum, Scorp?" Albus asked point-blank.

"Al! Don't be rude!" Rose gasped.

He ignored his cousin's indignant exclamation. "As if you don't want to know," he muttered, looking down to hide the blush he couldn't help. Rose was right, of course, but he also knew his best friend. Left to his own devices, Scorp would take ages to spill the beans, and with so many people close by, they simply didn't have the time to beat around the bush. "Scorp? Can you tell?" 

Scorpius grimaced a little – usually, Al wasn't quite that blunt, at least not with him – but he really needed to speak to _someone_ , and who better than his best friends? Sooner or later, he'd tell them anyway. He sighed.

"She stayed at home," he said quietly. "To pack."

"Pack?" Rosie wondered. "Why? Is she going somewhere?"

"Uh huh," Scorpius nodded, fighting down his reluctance.

"But where?" Al asked. "And why couldn't she wait until tomorrow?"

"I don't know," Scorpius murmured. "Father just said she's going away." He paused. "I … I don't think she's coming back, though." Despite his best efforts to appear calm, like a proper Malfoy, his expression shifted into misery.

"What? Why?" 

The blond boy shrugged. "Father didn't say. He often looks sad, though. Or angry. Sometimes both." He sounded as if a big lump had lodged in his throat.

"Have … have they been yelling at each other a lot?" Rose asked hesitantly, with a growing suspicion where this might be going. Just after Christmas, one of the girls down in Ottery St Catchpole had told her and Hugo that something just like that had happened with _her_ parents, too – only it had been Natalie's dad who'd packed up the car and left. He hadn't yet come back, either.

"No," Scorpius swallowed hard. "Actually, they haven't said much to each other at all lately."

"Sometimes, that's worse." Al's voice sounded very small, and the glance he cast across the garden towards Ginny and Harry appeared rather unhappy. His cousin and friend saw and exchanged worried looks, but were unsure of what to say. "I think maybe the yelling's better."  
 _  
*Wait, both of them? Oh, this is bad.*  
_  
Turning pale under her freckles, Rose hugged Al with one arm and slid her free hand into Scorpius', trying to comfort both as best she could. Unusually, neither boy objected to her touch. "It doesn't _have_ to mean anything, though – right?" she whispered, for once at a loss for words. She definitely was Hermione's daughter – too intelligent not to draw the obvious conclusions, but that didn't mean she _wanted_ to be right. Not now, and not about something like this.

If Scorpius' parents were really splitting up like Natalie's, that'd be bad enough, but … Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny, too? Impossible… if only she could run to her mum and ask for an explanation! But she knew the boys would hate her if she did, so she resolved to wait and give what comfort she could in the strained silence settling between them. Luckily for her, it was at that moment that Al's younger sister Lily burst into their hideout. 

"Al, Al – Aunt Luna brought chocolate muffins! With buttercream icing and sprinkles! If you want some, come now, before Jamie and the cousins eat them all," the little girl cried excitedly.

When one is only eight years old, sweet treats can ease a lot of worries. Even ones about mothers who pack bags, fathers who are sad when nobody's looking and parents who either yell or don't speak. 

"Yes, let's," Al said, glad for an excuse to escape his thoughts. "Coming, Scorp?"

"Sure." 

"Then come on," Rose said simply. Hand in hand, the children ran off.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

The day passed; while the weather had turned drizzly around midafternoon, a few discreet charms over the part of the garden that couldn't be seen into by casual passersby ensured that the party remained pleasant and comfortable.

Most of the food had been consumed, drinks had been had by all, and now it was time for the 'real' Beltane celebration to begin. Ginny organized the general tidying-up and storing of leftovers, Harry oversaw the rearranging of seating, and the three matriarchs turned their attention towards the needed paraphernalia. The tablecloth embroidered by Harry's grandmother Evans was draped onto a large, solid-oak table under some early-blooming apple trees, Narcissa deftly arranged a bouquet of spring flowers from the Manor gardens into the yellow-crystal vase, Molly carried over a basket of the bread Ginny had baked, and filled an elegant silver-lidded crystal jug with her May wine. Lastly, Andromeda unwrapped the freshly-polished chalice they'd retrieved from the Black vault and placed it in the center of the table-turned-altar, right next to her own silver athame. Together, they lit a few lampions hanging in the trees' branches and then consecrated the area. 

All preparations complete, adults and children gathered and sat in a half-circle of conjured seats while Molly and Arthur stepped forward. As the oldest present, they invoked the traditional blessings. Next the Sisters Black distributed sunflower seeds and pieces of bread to everyone and poured each person a glass of the wine, substituting it with peach nectar for the children. Ginny and Harry as hosts then recited the ritual words they'd chosen beforehand and filled the ancient chalice with clear water, half from their wands and half collected at dawn from a small spring at the edge of Godric's Hollow. As the sun began to set slowly behind the trees, Harry hesitated briefly, letting his eyes sweep over the assembled guests. All of them were either related to Ginny and him by blood or marriage, or had forged deep and lasting bonds of friendship with them in the past. 

All except one, that is – and it looked as if their sons, the next generation, were well on their way to form a bond as strong and enduring as any he'd made with Ron, Hermione, Neville and Luna. Andromeda had taught him that it was usually a man and a woman who performed the rite, but it wasn't _forbidden_ , or totally unheard of,to adapt the traditions, so …   
_  
*Beltane is a time of new beginnings. And as it's my first time to be the main celebrant, I might as well start as I mean to go on.*_

Decision made, he followed his instinct and, ignoring his wife's startled glance, motioned towards Draco Malfoy.

"Malfoy – no, _Draco_ : will you join us in performing tonight’s Rite?" 

Rather surprised, Draco nevertheless got up without hesitation and went to stand beside him. "I am honoured … and willing," he said softly but clearly, bowing towards both his host and hostess. "As long as you'll explain why me," he added under his breath, so that only Harry and Ginny would hear.

Harry gave him a small smile. "I'm standing in for everybody else in the family, and you're the only other Head of a family present who's not related to me in some way," he murmured. "Well, except Neville, and he can't, on account of his father. It's fitting, and … it _feels_ right." Ginny snorted almost inaudibly, but chose not to say anything.

Malfoy nodded slowly. With Frank Longbottom still alive, Neville couldn't yet perform certain rituals in his stead as his father was unable to formally pass on the mantle of Head of Family, whereas Draco had led House Malfoy since Lucius' incarceration. "Very well." He paused for a second, then said quietly, "Thank you ‒ Harry."

The Potters acknowledged his thanks, and all three then cast a gentle _Incendio_ at a cast-iron fire basket, to light the traditional twenty-seven sticks of ritual woods they'd put in there in lieu of a bonfire. 

The flames caught. As the two men, one light, one dark, faced each other across the fire, all present fell silent. The only sound was of wind rustling in the leaves of the trees overhead when Ginny stepped forward. It was unconventional to have two men in the ceremony instead of the traditional man and woman, but she knew Harry well enough to see why he'd chosen to include his former rival. She’d be having words with him over the surprise move later, but for now they had a ritual to complete.

"I greet the time of unions and give honour to the Lord and the Lady for Their fruitfulness. Tonight, I witness the marriage of Goddess and God. May Their union be fertile and productive," she recited, gesturing for Harry to take the gleaming chalice and for Draco to pick up the athame. They did so, and grasped each other's left hands.

“Life is more than a gift, it is a promise. All that dies shall be reborn,” Harry intoned next, his right hand wrapped firmly around the ancient vessel as he held it crosswise over his and Draco’s entwined fingers. The magic embedded in the artefact which he'd sensed first in the Blacks' vault made his whole body tingle.

Draco lifted the athame high. “We now celebrate the most ancient of magics, the magic of joining.” As the athame was poised directly above the chalice, a gentle mist rose up from the water, golden against the darkening sky. As soon as it reached the dagger's tip, tiny silver sparks began to shoot from the point of contact. Slowly the small motes of light coalesced and settled around the chalice's rim, making the faded symbols etched into the metal glow with a near-unearthly light. There were a few small gasps from those watching, quickly stifled.

Astonished and intrigued himself, Harry raised both eyebrows, but he dared not interrupt the Rite at this point. _*Surely Andi, or Hermione, will be able to explain later.*_ Almost seamlessly, he picked up his cue. “The athame is to the Lord.”

“As the cup is the Lady,” Draco replied, with small bows to Ginny as hostess and the three older women as matriarchs. He, too, was surprised – none of the festival rites he'd participated in had _ever_ produced an effect like this. But his magic could sense no danger, and he trusted Potter – Harry – not to let him come to harm. _*Not that I'd ever admit as much out loud!*_

While pleased by the small courtesy, Ginny's smile was a tad strained. She was getting a weird feeling about this, as if her world was suddenly tilting on its axis and nothing would ever be quite the same again. _*It's all Andromeda's fault,*_ she thought furiously for the hundredth or so time. And she'd _definitely_ be telling the woman off once they were done, for seducing Harry into this Pureblood nonsense in the first place! Forcing a calmness she didn't really feel, she made herself continue. "As They are one, They become one. As They become one, They are one. And I am also one with Them." She sketched a pentagram for protection into the air, drew a containment circle around the sigil and then nodded towards the men to complete the ritual. 

“United in life and abundance. Blessed Be!” the two said in unison, and Draco slowly plunged the blade into the chalice.

And the glow of the symbols intensified a thousandfold, flaring up and out, enlarging the mist until Harry and Draco were completely enveloped from head to foot in a translucent dome. Gold and silver sparks continued to chase each other across its surface, shining and pulsating with a Power no-one had ever seen or known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**
> 
> **_A/N:_** The athame ritual was written by [Jason Mankey](%E2%80%9D). For the purposes of the story, I've merged it with another taken from lyrasilverhawk's blog. No disrespect to their beliefs is intended. ****
> 
> **  
> )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**


	5. Chapter 5

**  
**Chapter 4  
__  
21 March – 15 April, 1347  
**_4.1 Plymouth to La Rochelle_ **

Sir Harold Peverel and Sir Draco Malfoy – as the Prince of Wales had promised, Nicholas' nephew had been given the accolade as reward for his participation, as well as to fulfill the parameters of the Prophecy to the letter, just in case it should matter – met at the Sleeping Dragon Inn in Plymouth shortly after St Andrews Church had tolled Sext at midday. Within an hour, they were having their first fight.

"I refuse to travel in squalor," shouted Malfoy, slamming his tankard of ale so hard on the table that half the contents slopped over. He impatiently Vanished the spillage with a wave of his wand. "It is beneath my status – I brought my escort for a reason!"

Peverel huffed and sat back down on the chair he'd abandoned earlier in his agitation. "I'd hardly call it squalor," he said, his clipped tones conveying his annoyance as well, if not better, than sheer volume ever would. "I'm just trying to tell you that a small group of travelers would be much less conspicuous than over a dozen men, armed to the teeth and going about with banners flying!" 

“They would give us protection!”

“Why would we need that? For all that you’re not a soldier, you are no slouch at defending yourself,” Peverel countered. “Remember, I’ve seen what you can do at Hogwarts.” He gave the other young man a Look. "We’re not a merchant caravan transporting valuable wares.”

“No, just a tiny band of riders, if you have your way, venturing into strange and potentially hostile areas,” Sir Draco muttered, refusing to be mollified by the earlier mild compliment to his prowess at Defense. 

Peverel rolled his eyes. “In case you have forgotten, there's a war going on in many of the lands we have to travel, and while King Edward may also be Duke of Aquitaine and related to the House of Castile through his grandmother, this is not a guarantee that we, as Englishmen, won't be considered hostiles by large parts of the populace."

"I'm actually French," Malfoy grumbled sullenly, taking back his own seat.

"By ancestry maybe, but as your uncle swore fealty to the King and your father has been declared Heir …"

Malfoy gave him a disgusted look, since he couldn’t very well refute the point. “Trust you to be _logical_ about it,” he grumped. “Like some bloody Ravenclaw!”

It took an enormous amount of self-control for Peverel not to burst out laughing. He just stared until the other looked away first.

"Oh, very well," Malfoy conceded grudgingly. "I'll send them back."

Harold knew when to be gracious. "I'm not saying you must be completely without company," he said, much calmer now. "I'll be taking my squire and a groom myself – how about you choose two of your men for an escort as well? That'd bring our number to six – a group small enough not to draw undue attention, yet safe enough to prevent random attacks." 

Malfoy clearly didn't like it, but knew that between the two of them, the soldierly Peverel had more experience than him, a merchant – if a very successful one. He was quite aware that what was suitable for a commercial endeavor didn't necessarily mean it'd be the same on the kind of journey they were about to undertake.

"Oh, do what you will; much as it pains me to admit, you're the expert here," he gave in at last, if with ill grace.

Peverel grinned and refilled both their tankards without prompting. "That must've hurt," he said with a wink. "Just because I beat you a few times at Creaothceann and Shuntbumps while we were at school …"

"It was nearly all the bloody time, and you know it," Malfoy replied with much less heat than before. They'd attended Hogwarts together half a decade ago, but had never been part of each other's circle of friends: One Saxon, Halfblood, good at practical magic like Charms and Transfiguration, Gryffindor and from a family long entrenched in Christianity; the other of Norman descent, Pureblood, excelling at Potions and Arithmancy, Slytherin, his family still not-so-secretly following the Old Religion … they hadn't _hated_ each other, just didn't have a lot in common. Well, except for their mutual love of broomstick sports, which had led to a fierce rivalry on the playing field. "How you ever managed to walk, much less sit after the hours you spent on a besom …"

"Practice and good extra-strength padding, sewn into my breeches," Sir Harold confessed cheerfully. "But you realise that's also the reason why we have to travel the Muggle way to pass undisturbed through Andalucìa?"

"Merlin, yes," Malfoy agreed fervently. "I love to fly, but the thought of covering nearly three hundred leagues on a broomstick – my poor arse!" 

Even when they'd been at Hogwarts together, Harold had often noticed just how fine an arse Malfoy had in his tight breeches and well-cut robes, but kept his observation to himself. Maybe there would be an opportunity to find out more on this quest they were about to begin …

He was brought out of his musings when Malfoy cleared his throat. "Tell me, though, why we can't use other ways to travel? I see why we have to sail into France, but surely there's a faster way? I mean, there's the Wildsmith woman's invention everybody's been raving about for ages … it lets one travel through fireplaces, or some such?"

"I wish there was," Sir Harold sighed and drained his tankard. "I'm not looking forward to several weeks on the road, either. But to use Floo powder, the fireplaces must be connected to each other somehow, and nobody has attempted it yet over great distances. As for Apparition, not even _Dominus_ Prewett could find maps accurate enough to provide us with destinations, and besides, even short hops would only exhaust us over that kind of distance."

"Which also holds true for Portkeys, I presume?"

"Unfortunately. For one, it'd be difficult to transport our luggage with a Portkey, and for another, we can't risk appearing apparently out of thin air within sight of Muggles. Not only would it frighten them and draw undue attention to us, it's also that the Pope and the Church are getting progressively intolerant of magic. I'd rather not call the Inquisition upon us, and our quest, just to save time and avoid some discomfort."

Malfoy grimaced. "Nobody's expecting the Inquisition," he said. "What do they have against magic, anyway?"

"They consider it heresy, or maybe apostasy," Peverel replied. "I never bothered to learn the difference between either, but whatever they are, it's supposedly against God and the natural order of things, or some such rot." The two shared an eye-roll. Every witch and wizard knew that magic always worked _in accord_ with the Gods and Nature – and hadn't even the Christ performed acts recorded in the Bible that were indistinguishable from magic? Healing, Transfiguring water into wine, Conjuring enough food to feed a crowd from just a few pieces of bread and two fishes, even calming down a storm or walking on water – all things a wizard might do if he was sufficiently trained.

"That's ridiculous," Malfoy scoffed. "Don't they know that there are laws to magic that are perfectly natural?"

"If they do – and some must, or the King would never have sanctioned our quest – they don't care," Harold said. "Let's just be thankful that we can shrink most of our luggage and supplies, and hide our valuables from prying eyes by Disillusioning them."

"Can we at least use Muggle-Repelling Charms, do you think?"

"Certainly sometimes – and Notice-Me-Not Charms, too, I believe," Harold replied … and just like that, they sank into a discussion on how to proceed that took up most of the day and went well past the evening meal.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

Two days later, Malfoy had sent most of his men-at-arms back home; the remaining two, Vincent and Gregory, would serve them well on the journey. They were big, strong and taciturn; neither stupid nor especially bright, but good with horses, capable hunters and knew how to handle themselves in a tight spot with crossbow and knives if need be. Peverel brought his squire Ronald, a tall, lanky redhead with a fiery temper who was skilled at the longbow, and another groom who'd served him well on the last campaign he'd fought in the King's service – a quick-witted Irishman named Seamus whose life's ambition seemed to be to drown himself in as many casks of strong spirit as he could find, but he had healing experience and was utterly devoted to Sir Harold. They'd do tolerably well together, everybody agreed.

They sailed from Plymouth with the morning tide on the twenty-second of March; the sky was overcast and chilly, as it often tended to be in spring, but luck was with them and the sea remained mostly calm as the ship took them to La Rochelle, a well-defended harbour on the western coast of France guarded by two mighty stone towers. 

The time of their passage was spent profitably, both in renewing their acquaintance as well as pooling what information they'd been given. Because of the deadlines the prophecy had set them, they hadn't been able to have long planning meetings with everybody involved in one place. Instead, _Magister_ Dumbledore and Perceval Weasley had briefed Peverel, whereas Headmaster Prewett had accompanied Nicholas Malfoy to instruct the man's nephew on what he needed to know. 

It was a reasonably sunny day in the Bay of Biscay when the captain informed both young men they'd be making landfall within a few hours – and indeed, the faint outline of shore was already becoming visible on the horizon. Vincent and Gregory immediately began to pack their belongings into sturdy trunks, surreptitiously applying Shrinking and Lightening Charms, Seamus readied their mounts and Squire Ronald stood watch, dividing his attention between his fellows and the two knights, ready to lend a hand wherever one might be needed. Peverel and Malfoy stood at the ship’s bow, watching it pass the Île de Ré, the small island just a short distance offshore from La Rochelle. Their cloaks were billowing around their legs, the appliquéd arms nearly obscured by the folds.

"So what's the plan?" Malfoy wanted to know at last, his quiet voice almost drowned out by the snap of wind in the sails overhead and the shouts of the sailors as the captain eased into the harbour. 

"Find an inn to stay the night to regain our land legs, buy provisions, pack up and leave as soon as possible," Peverel replied succinctly. He squinted in the sunlight, trying to make out what was going on at the wharf. He wished he could ask Ronald for a detailed description as was his wont, but decided not to draw unnecessary attention to his weak eyes.

He received a sardonic look in return. "As if I couldn't have thought of thatby myself," Malfoy said. "Don't take me for an idiot just because you have more campaign experience than I; organising a trade caravan isn't _that_ different, I'll have you know."

"I haven't thought you an idiot for quite some time now, Malfoy," Peverel said with a slight bow and a barely-hidden grin. The magical-versus-Muggle method of doing things had been a bone of contention between them since they'd set out on their journey, but the shouting matches had gradually given way to more teasing exchanges on both sides – a state of affairs that looked likely to continue. "Why, I believe it's been four days now – ever since you realised that just because we won't be able to use magic openly doesn't mean that we have to be totally uncomfortable. So, my apologies."

"If you go on insulting me – which you're doing quite badly, I might add – you may as well use my given name," Malfoy grumbled, making a rather unexpected offer.

"I'm sure I'll have ample opportunity to get better at it on this quest of ours." Peverel grinned. "But very well … Draco." He held out his hand, which Malfoy shook. "Call me Harold – or better yet, Harry."

"What, not Hereweald?" Malfoy – no, Draco – smirked. "I seem to remember that's what you were named at the Sorting."

Harry groaned. "I'll never live that down, will I?"

"Not soon," Draco confirmed, chuckling. "What _were_ your parents thinking, to use the Saxon version of Harold?"

"Probably a similar thing as yours when they named you dragon in Latin," Harry retorted. "But to answer your question – we'll head south, into Languedoc. Our first stop will be the Château de Montségur."

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

**4.2 – Château de Montségur  
**  
They made good progress, but a bout of bad weather and the need to go around a skirmish near Toulouse turned the nine days it should've taken them into nearly two weeks of hard riding before they reached the remnants of what had once been a proud castle high in the foothills rising up into the Pyrenée mountains. The château had been half in ruins for a hundred years now, ever since the Pope's forces had laid siege to the ancient fortress. This siege had lasted over a year and only ended when two hundred and twenty Cathars were burned to death, choosing to walk into the flames rather than being put to the stake. The locals stayed away, fearing the ghosts of the slain, but one person still lived in the ruins – and it was him Peverel had been told to seek out by _Magister_ Dumbledore.

He alighted from his weary horse in the centre of the former courtyard. One hand stayed wrapped firmly around the hilt of his sword as he looked around. 

"Someone's moving in the far corner on the left, Sir Harold," murmured Ronald the squire as he came up to take the horse's reins. Harold sent him a quick, grateful smile – sometimes, due to his not-very-sharp sight, he missed things that could be dangerous. Thus Ronald had been acting as his 'eyes' since he'd left Hogwarts.

"My thanks, Ron." He turned towards the deep shadow. "Hello there! We mean no harm; Wulfric Dumbledore sent us," he called in French, his voice ringing clear among the crumbling walls. 

"Pretty words fer a stranger carryin' a big knife." And out of an archway stepped a man that had Malfoy and his grooms reach for their wands. He was almost as tall as they were astride on their horses, with an enormous beard, wild long hair and was clad in rough homespun breeches and tunic. He was also holding onto the collar of a vicious-looking boar hound that well matched his master's size. His beetle-black eyes beneath bushy brows were watchful, but not hostile. "Maître Wulfric sent yeh, yeh said?"

"He did," Harry confirmed and quickly performed introductions. "And you would be …?"

The huge man relaxed and signaled the dog to sit. "Good man, Dumbledore. Me name's Hagrid," he said, his French uncultured and accented, yet understandable. "If yeh'll follow me, I'll show yeh yer quarters fer the night."

"Right. Ronald, Vincent, if you'll see to the horses?"

"Oh, leave 'em here. I'll look after 'em right proper myself," Hagrid said, and led them deeper into the half-ruined keep. "Be careful now that yeh don' stumble."

The six men followed, carefully taking note of their surroundings. "Merlin, he's _big_ ," Malfoy murmured in English, watching in half-horrified fascination how Hagrid pushed aside large, broken beams and chunks of rubble as if they were nothing but twigs and pebbles.

"Dumbledore suspects he's half-giant," Harry answered in the same language, keeping his voice low. "But he also said he's not dangerous … if we treat him right."

Draco blushed slightly; he knew he tended to be arrogant, especially when dealing with those of lesser status. "Don't worry; I'm always on my best behaviour towards people who look as if they can crush me like vermin between their fingers."

"Oh, so size matters to you?" Harry said with a tiny leer even as he climbed nimbly over a half-crumbled wall. He'd been delighted to see that a bit of innuendo wasn't rejected by his new friend; in fact, Draco was beginning to tease him right back, and the possibilities inherent in _that_ were … promising.

Before the other could reply, Harry’s wayward thoughts were interrupted as Hagrid stopped and pointed towards a battered wooden door in what might once have been the castle's kitchen. "Here yeh go. Sorry it's jes' two rooms; I canna keep up more or I'd be found out by folks we don' want pokin' around." 

The chambers were low-ceilinged and the only light came from the doorways, but each had a decent fireplace, the floors were clean, and there was room enough to spread out their bedding.

"It'll do fine for a couple of days," Peverel decided, choosing the room to the right and motioning their escort of four into the other. "We need to rest the horses, after all."

"And to pick up a certain item," Malfoy started to say when he caught a slight shake of the head and warning glance from the other man. He subsided and waited until Hagrid had left to feed and stable their mounts, boar hound in tow, with a promise to come back later with food.

"Why did you stop me from speaking earlier?" he wanted to know as they lounged in front of a cheery fire, goblets of wine in hand. Ronald and the others had quickly unpacked and unshrunk a couple of stools along with their bedding and were now helping Hagrid prepare their evening meal. "Am I not to assume that it's here we're to collect that treasure the prophecy mentioned?"

"Yes," Harold said quietly. "But while I generally trust Dumbledore's judgement about Hagrid, I don't think we can be too careful about whom we tell about our purpose here. Others have been searching for the treasure in the past, and might still be doing so."

"Merlin, you soldier types are suspicious," Draco muttered. "But in this case, you may be right."

"Thank you."

"Don't be so effusive. One might almost think we're friends."

"Merlin, Morgana and all the saints forbid," Harry replied, sharing a grin with Draco. 

They were interrupted by the others’ return, and stopped to partake of a simple yet tasty stew, accompanied by fresh crusty bread. Finished, they were left alone once more to share a last drink before retiring for the night.

"So, back to my earlier question?” Malfoy began.

“Ah, yes.” Peverel unexpectedly drew his wand and quickly erected both Silencing and Privacy Wards around them. "First, I need your word that what I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this room." 

Malfoy slowly sat up from his comfortable slouch. There was a note in the other man's voice that sounded deadly serious, and he knew better than to counter it with their usual banter, especially given the spells just cast. He also reached for his wand and held it across his heart. "On my magic, I swear to hold your secret as mine," he vowed solemnly.

Harold inclined his head in silent thanks, then took a few moments to gather his thoughts. “You’ve heard the prophecy; we had to come here to search for Montségur's treasure."

“You know what it is?”

“Not precisely, but I have an idea.”

"Mmmn. Those warrior knights ..." Malfoy drawled, sipping his wine. "Might they have worn white mantles, with a red _crosse pattée_ , perhaps?" He kept his expression purposely bland, but there was a keen shrewdness in his gaze that told Harry he’d correctly deducted a significant part of why they’d come here.

"Well reasoned, _mon ami_." Peverel inhaled deeply and met the grey eyes of the man who was quickly becoming a close friend. "There's a connection with my mother's family," he murmured at last. "You know that she was Muggleborn, yes?" 

"Everybody does," Malfoy waved it away with a casual gesture. "Uncle Nicholas cares about this kind of thing more than I do. Admittedly, it's not something I'd choose for my own family, but from all accounts she was a competent witch, devoted to your father, and her … um … unfortunate background doesn't seem to have impaired _your_ talent. Well, what there is of it, of course." 

Harold smiled fleetingly. The disparities in their backgrounds had led to quite a number of debates so far, mostly good-natured if with a hefty dose of mockery from Malfoy which Peverel usually countered in a similar vein. Instead of causing more fights like at their first meeting in Plymouth, these arguments strangely served to draw them closer. "Thanks ‒ I think. What _not_ everybody knows, however, is her family history."

"Oh? Something more scandalous than Muggle origins?"

Peverel made a rude gesture which Malfoy returned by giving a small, slightly mocking salute with his goblet.

"My mother's father was a Templar Knight born not far from here – at Angoulême, to be exact," Harold divulged at last. "His ancestors had come from Britain with Richard Lionheart and stayed after the Third Crusade to serve as mercenaries to the Sieur of Mirepoix, the patron of this area. 

"Forty years ago, grandpère had gone to Paris on an errand when the Templars were disbanded overnight by Philipp of France and Pope Clement; he managed to leave just in time to escape being burned at the stake as a heretic. He was injured, though, and fled north to Lille where he ended up at a béguinage. It was there he met my grandmother; she nursed his wounds until he was hale once more, and when he left for his ancestral Britain, she followed him as his bride. Of course he had to set aside his vows, but …" He shrugged eloquently.

"Can't have been an easy decision," Malfoy said. Vows of _any_ kind were a serious matter, whether magical or Muggle.

"From what I hear, it wasn't, but anything else just wasn't safe, so … anyway, they settled near Clwyd in Wales, where St Mungo had lived for a time, and when my mother was born and turned out magical, applied for protection to Rhydion Evans, their head of family. Rhydion agreed and even offered them the use of his name, which my grandfather gladly accepted to better hide his Templar past from the Church's persecution. In time, mother gained a place at Hogwarts; it was there she met my father, and, well, the rest is history, as they say."

Malfoy wasn't well-versed in Muggle affairs, but even Purebloods knew of the Knights Templar; quite a few wizards had actually joined the Order’s ranks in the past. And many a Mediwitch went to hone her craft in a Béguine establishment; the women choosing to live there often were competent teachers and healers, dedicated to good works and supporting themselves by hard, honest work – a reason why the Inquisition seemed inclined to take them under scrutiny as well. An independent woman was all but anathema to the Church, who preferred them to stay in the house and be subservient to their menfolk's rule. From all he’d heard about Lilia Evans Peverel, she hadn't been that kind of woman until the day she and her husband were killed by Scotsmen’s hands during a border raid while Harold had still been in his first year at Hogwarts.

"Right. Now, are you finally going to tell me what this treasure the prophecy mentioned is?"

"So impatient,” Harold teased, but gave up on levity when he saw his companion’s frown. “It’s something the Knights Templar hid here at Montségur on their way back from the Holy Land after the very first crusade, and it fell to my family line to protect it. People think it's lost to all, but ... there's a legend."

Draco groaned in mock horror. "What, you're dragging me halfway across Aquitaine – _without_ letting me use magic, either! – just becausethere's a bedtime fable about a Templar treasure?"

Harry smiled slightly, thinking of one specific story he'd grown up hearing. "What’s mere legend to one can be family history to another." And he wouldn't say more on the matter for the rest of the night, and all of the next day.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

Their second night at Montségur, Harry woke Draco only a few hours past midnight, ignoring the grumbling behind him as Draco sleepily stumbled out into the castle's courtyard in the chill pre-dawn air.

"Will you keep quiet?" Harry hissed. "We don't want the world to know that we’re up and about, much less what we're going to look for!"

 _That_ woke Draco up better than an _Aguamenti_ in the face. "We're searching for the treasure? Now?"

"Yes – but quietly, if you please!"

"I'll be as quiet as a mouse," Draco promised, shrugging deeper into his gambeson as he followed.

Harry couldn't help himself, he had to chuckle. "Don't you have the wrong rodent there?" he asked, referring to the time when a stray misfired hex during dueling practice had turned the other into a ferret.

"Shut up, knave!" Draco sent Harold a poisonous glare. "I'm still not convinced it wasn't you who did that to me!"

"In fourth year? Hardly. Today would be another matter, though, if you'd like me to try?" Green eyes sparkled under black, messy hair cut short to facilitate wearing a helmet. 

With a sniff, Draco finished fussing with the fastenings of his padded jacket and quickly tied his own long, blond hair back with a piece of ribbon. "You wish." He waved a dismissive hand. "Never mind; where are we going?" 

"Just beyond the west wall," Harry pointed.

As stealthily as possible, they picked their way through the ruins until they stood outside the old keep. The hollowed-out and partially-broken windows stood in sharp contrast to the slowly-brightening sky as the stars winked out one by one. 

"Any minute now," Harry murmured. He reached into a pouch tied to his belt and fastened a silver torc around his neck, blinking furiously as he activated the runes engraved on it with a tap of his wand and a whispered spell. _"Video meliora!"_

"I thought you hated that thing. Doesn't it give you a headache?" Draco asked softly.

"Yes. Can't be helped, though – I need to see what I'm doing." Harry sighed, wishing not for the first time that there was a device or whatever that could enhance vision permanently. He could use magnifying glasses to read and for close-quarters work that only needed one hand, but it was a cumbersome way of doing things. Certain spells helped, but they were often unstable or tended to wear off fairly quickly, and the ‘eyeglasses’ some Italian Muggle had invented some fifty-odd years ago that could be worn on one's face were useless for far-seeing. So until and unless someone found a better solution, he was stuck with his torc and the runes … and unfortunately a blinding headache after each use. Still, he supposed it was better than nothing.

The two young men waited, watching the sun rise from behind the distant peaks of the mountains. "See that wheel window in the top right corner?"

"Ye-es," Malfoy said after a few moments, identifying the half-broken spokes at last. "What about it?"

"The legend says that if the right command is given at the right instant by someone of the Guardian's blood, a beam of light will fall through the central _oculus_ and reveal where Montségur's treasure is hidden."

"Right …"

They both watched with bated breaths as the sun rose inexorably, bathing the jagged walls in golden light. Harry moved a few careful steps now and then to adjust his position, telling Draco with sparse gestures to keep closely by his side. As dawn gradually gave way to true sunrise and the circle in the middle of the broken wheel window began to blaze bright with sunlight, it seemed to Draco that the legend might be just that, a tale told to children at bedtime, or around the fire on a winter's night. Strangely disappointed, he was about to say so when Harry suddenly gripped his arm, hard, and lifted his wand.

 _"Lucem Revelo!"_ he whisper-shouted, pointing his wand at the stone frame silhouetted in stark black against the cloudless sky. His aim was perfect and true. Struck mute with awe, Draco watched as sunlight mingled with spell, both turning crimson edged with gold, and against all laws of Nature veered off at an angle towards a hill not too far away.

"Quick, memorize the point of impact," Harry instructed, his hand as steady as his voice was shaking. "It'll be over in a second!" As he spoke, so it happened. The red beam died as quickly as it had appeared, and the last of the morning's mist shrouding the walls of Montségur was burned away by glorious light.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

The sun was high in the sky once they'd first scrambled down the rocky cliff and then back up the moss-slippery hillside where the red beam had guided them, but it took them the better part of an hour to find what they were looking for. It was Draco's sharp eye that discovered the carved shape of a Templar's Seal underneath the grayish lichen on a flat stone shaped into a crude shield, and Harry's strong yet sensitive hands that pried it loose with very little fuss. The stone covered a deep crevice, and behind it sat a large lidded clay pot, of the type used to store perishable goods since the days of the Roman legions. It was rather heavy, but a cautious shake as they lifted it out of the crevice produced neither sound nor movement from within.

"Well, it's obviously not empty," Draco commented, stretching his back. "Heavy enough to hold gold or jewels, too."

"Somehow, I don't think so," Harry said, letting his fingertips glide lightly around the rim of the lid. When he got to the edge, he startled, paused and then bent to take a closer look. Soon, though, he straightened again and yanked the torc from his neck with a muttered oath.

"Damn this thing! My eyeballs feel as if they're filled with shards of glass, and I _still_ can't see well enough to –" He sighed, motioning for Draco to take over. "I think there’s some kind of carving here; it might be runes, or something. Will you take a look?"

"Of course." The blond head bowed low over the pot as he, too, traced the lid's edge with sensitive fingers. "Not runes," Draco determined after a few moments. "But definitely a type of script."

"We'll examine it tonight," Harry said. "I'd rather not do it out here, where anyone can hide behind a rock without us noticing."

"Agreed. Also, food? It's nearing midday, and I'm starving!"

The rumble of Harry's stomach was answer enough, as was his rueful laugh. They re-covered the crevice, hiding its place as best they could, bundled up the pot in Draco's jerkin for protection and carried it back to the castle and their room.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

That night, they again waited until their escort and Hagrid were asleep before they made a closer examination of the pot. Draco declared the script around the edge to be Latin. "Let's see … it's badly eroded, but I think it says … _'Sana me Domine et sanabor salvum me fac et salvus ero quoniam laus mea tu es,'_ " he deciphered haltingly as he traced the tiny letters.  


"'Heal me, O Lord, and I shall be healed; save me, and I shall be saved, for you are my praise.' It's a verse from the Bible," Harry murmured. "Old Testament – Jeremiah, I think." 

Draco's breath hitched. "That's … eerie."

"Really?" Harry shrugged with a nonchalance he didn't truly feel. "I find it … fortuitous," he replied.

"You don't find it suspicious that we're on a rather nebulous quest to find a cure – which we don't even know exists, made by someone whose identity we're barely sure of, for a yet-to-be-defined plague, have to retrieve an artefact supposedly hidden centuries ago by Templars, in a ruined castle with a _very_ dodgy history, to help with that … and when, against all odds and by means of a legend and some rather risky spellwork, we actually find said artefact, it just _happens_ to have an inscription about healing on its cover?" 

"Amazing. You didn't even have to breathe while saying all this." 

Draco sent him a nearly murderous glare, which Harry returned with a wry smile. 

"No, seriously, why?" When Draco started to sputter incredulously, Harry held up a placatory hand. "Look, I agree it's a strange coincidence – very well, _several_ coincidences, if you insist – but the prophecy _specifically_ directed us here, towards this –" he waved, the gesture encompassing both keep and artefact, "‒ and if we start questioning every little detail just because things seem to fit a little too well, we might as well turn back and go home."

"I'm beginning to question your sanity," Malfoy grumbled. "And possibly my own, too, or I wouldn't be here to begin with." He glowered for a minute at his companion, then heaved a resigned sigh. "Oh, all right, go on then." He gestured towards the clay pot. "Might as well be mad along with you."

"At least it wasn't a warning," Harry said cheerfully, then donned his torc once more, took a thin and needle-sharp dagger from his pack and carefully started to scrape at the mix of resin and clay that had been used to seal lid and container untold years ago. 

Draco continued to mutter to himself about mysterious treasures, foolhardy Gryffindors and stupid ventures, but Harry noticed that his wand, lit with a bright _lumos_ to help them see, was held steady as a rock, and that Malfoy was clearly alert and watching out for any sign of trouble that might arise. 

Eventually, Harry succeeded in prying the lid loose without breaking anything. Gingerly, he opened the sturdy container. Inside, packed tightly in fine sand, lay a plain reddish-brown cup – about as high as a man's hand, with a low-stemmed base and a wider flared edge on top. The potter had scratched a few decorative vines into the outside before firing the clay, but otherwise it was wholly unremarkable.

That is, until a clearly disappointed Draco laid his wand aside and lifted the cup from its protective bedding, only to feel a wave of indescribable power wash over him, strong enough that he nearly let it fall. 

"Merlin!" 

"No, not him," Harry contradicted softly. Gently, he took the cup from Draco's suddenly unsteady hands and set it on the small tripod table between them so that they could both look at it. "Try someone else."

"What?" Uncomprehending grey eyes met green.

"You don't invoke Merlin over this cup, Draco," Harry said, still with that same hushed voice. "You're an educated man; think a little. The legend of Montségur says that a _Templar Knight_ was tasked by St Bernard of Clairvaux himself to guard a treasure from the Holy Land – a treasure that once was touched by a _king_."

Draco's breath caught as his mind assimilated these further details of the legend. "But … it's so plain," he murmured. "Surely … a king's … possession would be of gold, or alabaster …" 

"Not _this_ king's. He was the humblest of men, and didn't own much. From what we know, even the plate he used for supper probably belonged to someone else."

Something wondrous yet dreadful began to rise within Draco's heart as his conclusions solidified.

"Whom did they belong to?" he whispered, almost inaudibly, knowing the answer even before Harry gave it to him.

Harry's smile grew wistful, and he brushed a finger along the rim of the cup. "Joseph of Arimathea." 

The silence between them was heavy. Joseph of Arimathea was said to have founded the abbey at Glastonbury – a place that had meaning both for Christians and those who still followed the Old Religion. If this cup was what Draco was beginning to _think_ it was, and they were to use it in next year's Beltane _Ritual_ , _at_ Glastonbury itself–

_*Merlin, Morgana and all the saints, preserve us!*_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(  
> **  
> 
> 
> **  
>  **  
> _A/N:_  
>  Creaothceann (Scotland) - Popular in the Middle Ages, probably the most dangerous of all broom games. [...] Shuntbumps - popular in Devon. Similar to jousting. (Both old-time broom sports mentioned in “Quidditch Through the Ages”, via the HP Lexicon) ****  
>  _ Crosse pattée _is a cross the arms of which are narrow at the inner centre and very broad at the other end; the device was the official seal of the Knights Templar. The Order was officially disbanded in 1314 by King Philip IV of France and Pope Clement V, and its Grand Master burned at the stake._ _  
>  The Château de Montségur exists, complete with a legend of treasure hidden there. I've altered the legend slightly to suit the story.  
> In the early 13th century, the Cathar movement gave birth to the Medieval Inquisition; 400 Cathars were besieged at Montségur by a 6000-men strong Papal army. 220 of them chose voluntarily to walk into a burning meadow rather than being put to the stake by the victors in 1244.  
> One league equals roughly 3 miles/4.5 kilometres.  
> A score is an archaic word meaning twenty; thus "eleven-score" equals 220.  
>  _Béguines_ were Christian lay religious orders […] in the 13th –16th centuries. Their members lived in semi-monastic communities (béguinages), but did not take formal religious vows. That is, although they promised not to marry 'as long as they lived as Béguines', to quote one of the early Rules, they were free to leave at any time. Béguines were part of a larger spiritual revival movement of the thirteenth century that stressed imitation of Christ's life through voluntary poverty, care of the poor and sick, and religious devotion. (from Wikipedia)  
>  Clwyd/St Mungo: another real place. Scottish missionary Kentigern settled briefly on a ridge between the rivers Elwy and Clwyd. Kentigern eventually returned to Scotland (where he is known as St Mungo); found at BritainExpress  
> Hagrid's accent is courtesy of [the Hagridizer](http://rephrase.net/box/hagridizer/)  
> “oculus” = Latin for “eye”. The round central opening in a wheel window.  
>  _"Video Meliora!"_ = Latin for "I see better!"  
>  _"Lucem Revelo"_ = Latin for "show the light"  
>  The Old Testament quote is from Prophets; Jeremiah 17:14.
> 
>  
> 
> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

**  
Chapter 5**   
__  
1 May, 2014  
**_The Potters' House, Godric's Hollow_ **

_"Harry!"_   
_"Dad!"_   
_"Draco!"_   
_"Father!"_

Voices shouted, screamed and yelled in a cacophony of sound, from Lily Luna's childish treble to Charlie Weasley's hoarse bellow, but none was as horrified as Ginny's, more anguished than Scorpius' and Narcissa's, or rang with such a sick sense of déjà vu as Ron and Hermione's. At least the latter two had at one time been rather inured to the various scrapes and calamities fate seemed to throw at Harry on a regular basis, and trusted him to take care of himself. Still, to have it happen today, after years of relative peace and quiet, and amongst family and friends like this, was disconcerting in the extreme. The rest of the assembled guests reacted according to temperament, or to the degree of understanding they were capable of. 

Ginny was standing closest to Harry and Malfoy and instinctively reached out to her husband. But as soon as she came into contact with the dome surrounding the two men, it flared with a brilliant light, making her cry out with shock and stagger back a few steps. Wands were being drawn all around; Hermione and Ron rushed forward, preparing to do whatever they could, but a harsh command from Bill froze them in their tracks.

"Stop! Don't interfere!"

Bill moved to within a couple of feet to the translucent bubble, wand at the ready. "Let me scan this first." 

"We can't just stand here and do nothing," Ron protested, his face blanched nearly white underneath his freckles. "That's Harry in there!"

"Thanks for stating the obvious, Ron." Ignoring his brother, Bill began to cast.

"Your brother is the expert in a situation like this, Mr. Weasley," Narcissa Malfoy said, a barely-suppressed tremor in her cultured voice. "Out of all of us, he would be the most qualified to deal with whatever is holding Harry and my son." Despite being visibly upset, her wand was steady and held in readiness even as she clutched Scorpius to her side.

Ron looked mutinous, but Arthur stepped up and laid a restraining hand on his arm. "They're right, son," he murmured. "We don't know what this shield is, or what it might do if we disturb it."

Bill was moving around the bubble, a frown on his scarred face as every diagnostic spell he could think of was either deflected or showed no useful result. "I can't make heads or tails of this," he muttered. "It's old magic, very old, and doesn't seem hostile, but more than that I can't tell."

Hermione had started her own investigation from farther away after making sure that Molly, Andromeda and the other adults were looking after the children. The youngest had begun to cry, the oldest were pale with fright, and Scorpius seemed nearly petrified as he stared at his motionless father:

"It almost looks like _Priori Incantatem_ ," she said, "but I don't think it is."

"Definitely not." Bill shook his head. "For one, it's emanating from the chalice, not a wand – and for another, the signature has some characteristics that don't match up." Frustrated, he dispelled his diagnostics and returned his wand to its holster. "Where does that cup come from, anyway?"

"The Black family vault," Narcissa said after a moment's pause. "Harry, Andi and I retrieved it the other day."

"It's an heirloom," Andromeda added. "I'm no expert on antiques, but to me the workmanship looked as if it was fourteenth century; how long it's been in the family's possession, I couldn't say." 

"The Blacks were always a Dark family," Hermione murmured, sending an apologetic glance at the sisters. "We found so many cursed objects at Grimmauld Place … could the cup be another one?"

"Absolutely not." Andromeda's reply was adamant, and echoed simultaneously by Narcissa.

"How can you be sure?" Ron spat, his ears already beginning to turn red with anger as he whirled around to stare at Mrs. Malfoy. "I'll grant that you probably didn't _mean_ to hurt Harry, but how could you have let him use that … that _thing_ if you didn't know it was safe?"

"Because we all believed that it was," Andromeda snapped. “Do you honestly think that _Harry_ , of all people,would have brought a dangerous artefact into his house, where people he loved ‒ his _children! ‒_ might get hurt?”

“No. No, he wouldn’t have,” Ginny said with conviction.

"Okay, but why has it trapped Harry and Malfoy, though?" Neville asked. "I mean, I've never heard or seen anything like this, and you must admit, it doesn't _look_ good."

"I wish I knew," Mrs Malfoy sighed, casting a quick glance at her grandson who now stood anxiously poised at the edge of the group of children Molly had herded some distance away. Scorpius had been taught to stay well away from manifestations of unknown magic and was too well-mannered to disobey an adult, anyway, but his small, pointy face was even paler than usual, and tension radiated from every line of his body.

Momentarily reassured that the boy was safe, Narcissa wearily pressed a hand against her temple. "Our grandfather kept the chest with the chalice in his office as long as I can remember – and no matter what beliefs my family may or may not have espoused in the past, they wouldn't have willingly endangered the children of the House," she said shakily. "Not that we were ever allowed to touch the heirlooms except under supervision, but it definitely wasn't warded or locked away."

"For what it's worth, Sirius' mother hated the chalice, and banned it to the vault as soon as Arcturus had died," Andromeda added. "As I told Harry when we picked it up. Also, all three of us agreed that whatever magic the cup is imbued with ‒ and it positively _oozed_ with it, I'll say that much ‒ is definitely benevolent."

"Did any of you touch it before you took it from the vault?" Bill wanted to know. "Because the old high-security vaults may have protections on them that fizzle out once certain items are removed from Gringotts …"

"No. No, we didn't," Andromeda stated firmly.

"We just took the chest the cup was stored in," Narcissa said. "And _that_ felt perfectly ordinary – I should know, because it was I who found it."

Hermione made a frustrated sound. "So nobody touched the artefact itself before today?"

"I did."

Ginny's quiet statement had the same effect as a well-cast _Silencio_. Everybody shut up immediately and turned towards her.

"You did? When, and why?" several people asked at once, their voices once more overlapping and tinged with a mixture of incredulity, shock and curiosity. Not surprisingly, it was Molly Weasley who gained the upper hand and rushed towards her daughter to gather her in a protective embrace. 

"Merlin, Ginny, how could you? Haven't you learned not to handle unknown artefacts, especially ones from –" she scolded, but broke off when she caught sight of Narcissa's involuntary grimace and blushed despite herself. "Yes, well, I’m sorry, Narcissa; maybe it wasn't your fault, and I don't believe you'd harm your son, not after you lied to V-Voldemort for him and saved Harry, but … can you blame me for thinking …" she rallied.

"Calm down, Mum," Ginny sighed, disengaging herself from Molly's arms. She slowly walked towards the abandoned chairs and sank into one that offered her an unhindered view of Harry and Draco. They still stood frozen in the same position they'd been in when the dome had sprung up – facing each other, left hands joined, the chalice held above them and the athame's blade half-plunged into the water swirling in the cup.

"Harry showed it to me when he brought it home, and it looked so grubby … all I did was clean it last night. And Andi and Mrs Malfoy are right, it _did_ have a palpable magical aura about it, but it felt absolutely non-threatening."

"If you say so," Bill grumbled, scowling that he couldn’t have examined the cup himself _before_ it’d been used in the ritual. He _hated_ having to rely on someone else's perceptions of ancient artefacts. "What kind of spells did you use?" he wanted to know next. "Maybe they interfered with the cup's magic?"

"It could have been something in the cleaning solution," Molly, ever practical, put forth, interrupting her oldest son’s ruminations. "When I was still a newlywed, I nearly managed to ruin a couple of silver candlesticks myself because they reacted badly to the Bundimun secretion in Mrs. Scower's Magical Mess Remover."

"Or maybe whatever you used contained dragon's blood," Charlie spoke up unexpectedly. "I know it's sometimes used as a cleaning agent, but even a drop or two too many can cause significant damage. Ruddy Dumbledore should never have listed that among the twelve uses," he added in a disgruntled mumble. 

Ginny produced a rather weak chuckle, surprising everyone. "Actually, I didn't use _any_ magic on the chalice." 

"How did you get it so shiny, then?" Andromeda asked. "Down in the vault, the metal seemed quite dull, even if we only saw it by the light of one torch."

“That’s why I decided to give it a good rubdown.” Ginny's eyes flicked briefly towards her sister-in-law. "I used an old Muggle remedy," she admitted. "Hermione mentioned it once; I was out of Mrs. Scower's, so I thought why not give it a try – and it worked!"

" _Muggle?!?_ Impossible, that's-" Bill started, only to be interrupted again, this time by his father.

"Ginny, Muggles often use comicles to clean," Arthur said with a frown. "Maybe those did something to the chalice?"

" _Chemicals_ is just another word for ingredients or components, Arthur," Hermione corrected gently. "Or rather, their properties – the way they react with each other and to certain conditions. Chemistry, as the Muggle science dealing with that kind of thing is properly called, is a bit like a mixture of Alchemy and Potions." She shook her head when Mr Weasley's eyes lit up. "Please, Arthur, not now; I'll gladly explain at another time. Now, Ginny – what exactly _did_ you use to polish the cup?" There lurked a twinkle in her eyes that indicated she already knew, and it was answered by a slight, if strained smile from Ginny.

"Toothpaste, of course."

If the situation hadn't been so serious, the reactions and expressions on the assembled witches' and wizards' faces would've been priceless and equally exasperating and amusing to Hermione. As it was, she quickly explained why toothpaste – something even wizards were familiar with – could be and frequently was used by Muggles to polish delicate metal items, like jewellery … and that it was highly unlikely that such a mundane thing would have influenced a magical artefact in any way.

"Well, in that case, I'm at my wits' end," Bill sighed as he slumped his shoulders. "There's no curse I can detect, nothing and nobody has apparently done anything to the chalice that could've caused it to act like this… so I guess all we can do is wait."

Decidedly not happy, Ron pursed his lips. "For how long, though?"

"However long it takes." Bill grimaced ruefully. "For what it's worth, in my experience even the most powerful heirlooms can't sustain energies like that dome indefinitely. I know it's not what any of you want to hear," he added, letting his eyes sweep across the assembled family and friends, "but it's the only way. We'll give it some time, and see what happens."

"I'm afraid Mr Weasley is correct," Narcissa concurred after exchanging looks with Andromeda, Molly and Arthur as the oldest Purebloods present. Even if neither the Weasleys nor the Prewetts put as much stock in the old teachings as the Blacks and Malfoys, they still _knew_ about most of them ‒ and when to step back and let events run their course. 

"Meanwhile, may I suggest we complete the ritual as best we can without Draco and Harry? We don't want any stray energies that may still be lingering about to interfere with the magic of the chalice when it dissipates."

**)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 6**  
  
_16 April, 1347_  
_**Girona**_  
  
Hagrid guided the small band of English travelers across the Pyrenée mountains. It was hard going on often treacherous paths, and they were fortunate that Hagrid was able to keep up with their horses; otherwise, the time it took them might have easily doubled.

On the sixth day, just as the sun was past its zenith, Hagrid called a halt. They'd just passed through a deep gorge, made hazardous by lingering pockets of snow in the shadows, and were now standing on a rocky promontory overlooking the plain below. In the distance, they could see the Mediterranean Sea to the left and the walls of a city just on the horizon.

"This is as far as I can take yeh. The folks down in Catalonia don' like me much, an' it's better if yeh go on without me," Hagrid said. "Tha's Girona; half-a-day's ride yonder, an' yeh can stock up on vittles there."

"Our thanks, Hagrid." Sir Harold reached into his saddle roll and pulled out a pouch heavy with coin. "Your reward."

"Didn' do it fer money. It's fer Maître Dumbledore's sake tha' I helped yeh," the big man refused at first, but relented under Sir Draco's persuasive skills.

"Then don't take it for yourself if you don't want to, Hagrid," he said with a wave of his hand. "But I imagine your hound might now and then like something a bit more substantial than the rabbits he hunts … and who knows, maybe that lady friend of yours down in Perpignan would agree to share a cask of good wine, come Yule." He gave an exaggerated wink to the blushing half-giant. "Maxime, wasn't it?"

Hagrid laughed embarrassedly. "Yeh would remember what I said while in my cups, Sir Draco. Very well, fer my Maxime, I'll accept yer boon. An’ thankee both."

"As I said, it's us who owe thanks," Harry said, smiling. He _liked_ the big man, simple and straightforward as he was. "We're to enter Girona, then?"

"It's best ta buy supplies there. Yeh might even want ta get clothes; yer wools an' leathers won' really suit with summer jus' around the corner."

"There is that," Draco groaned, wiping sweat off his brow. That last climb had been especially arduous, despite done on horseback, and the temperatures were already soaring much higher than they were used to back home even in summer. "Can you suggest a place, or maybe a person?"

"Don' know about people, but yeh'd best go to the _Distrito del Mago_ ; jus' look fer _Il Cuervo Negro_. It's an inn jus' a street over from th' east gate ta the city, an' the _patròn_ can direct yeh." Hagrid grinned. "Their Rioja wine isn' half-bad, either; jus' make sure ta tell 'em I sent yeh, and tha’ yeh'd want it from the smallest cask."

"We'll keep that in mind," Harry laughed. "Farewell, friend!"

"Godspeed, Sir Knights." Hagrid saluted them briefly, turned around and left, each going their own way.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

They found the inn Hagrid had mentioned easily enough; the fierce black raven painted on its sign was hard to miss. The patròn, José, put them up in comfortable rooms, and on their discreet inquiries about the _Distrito del Mago_ directed them towards the large stables at the back of the inn's courtyard. He opened a heavy oak door which led into a small patio bordered by high stone walls that rendered it invisible to outside views.

"Just tap your varita mágica – how you say … wand? Yes, wand – against these bricks, like so," he demonstrated with a meaty finger, "and a passage will open. When you return, just say 'abrir!' and you can come back through. I shall put your caballos in those stalls, so it won't look extraño ... ah, strange to be seen here."

"Thank you, goodman," Draco replied, finding it easier to cope with the man's accent than Harry. Patròn José spoke French similarly to Hagrid, but with a Catalunian flavour that wasn't always easy to follow. As it was growing quite late in the day, they decided to postpone further explorations to the next day and followed the man back to the taproom instead, had a hearty dinner of fish, bread and cheese, then retired for the night. In the morning, after breaking their fast, Vincent and Gregory were ordered to stay behind and watch both the horses and their possessions; they'd be allowed to switch places with Ronald and Seamus once they returned. The four of them went back to the stables, opened the wall as instructed and entered the magical district of Girona.

"What a clever solution," Harry marvelled as he watched the archway close up behind them again. "We should report this back home – London is getting so crowded, it might be a good way to hide Diagon Alley from the Muggles."

"Something to bear in mind, in any case," Draco agreed distractedly. "Now help me look for a house bearing the sign of an open hand holding a gold coin and a gem."

They strolled through the sun-drenched streets, taking note of shops and stalls where they'd be able to buy clothes and other necessities. At last, Ronald spotted the sign Draco was looking for. 

"Very good! You two, wait here while Sir Harold and I do our business," the merchant knight told them, and all but dragged Harry into the house. Once inside, they found themselves face-to-face with a swarthy-skinned man standing behind a high desk, writing in a thick ledger.

"Good day, Messer Zabini," Draco greeted politely. The man looked up, startled, and a huge smile broke over his narrow face as he threw his quill aside.

"Draco Malfoy! I did not expect to see you here," he exclaimed, coming forth to shake their hands. "Welcome to the House of Piedro del Oro! What brings you to Girona?"

 

"Just a brief stop on our way further south to buy provisions and appropriate garments for the climate," Draco said airily, then lowered his voice. "And possibly make use of your _special_ services." __  
  
"Of course, of course! Please follow me," Zabini said and ushered them through a half-hidden door into a plain, but comfortably-furnished parlour. "Please excuse me for a short while; I must call Yaakov to take my place." He grinned hugely and rubbed his hands together. "I shall also bring wine and cakes!" With a swirl of rich robes, he left the parlour, and they heard him shout some incomprehensible name.

Harold looked around curiously. The room was rather unremarkable but for a set of nice brass scales on a shelf near the window.

"What is this place, who's that man, and why are we here?" he asked, making sure he couldn't be overheard.

Draco grinned smugly even as he ticked off his answers on his fingers. " _Primo_ , 'here' is a banking house; _secundo_ , Messers Emilio Zabini and his business partner Yaakov ben Solomon administer my uncle's finances abroad, and _tertio_ , we're here to exchange some of the lovely gemstones we've been provided with into coin so that we can pay our way." 

"I thought money-lending and related affairs are forbidden by the Church?" Harold frowned. He wasn't especially devout, but he disliked breaking the law, especially when it rode the thin line between ecclesiastical and secular matters.

"Ah, that's the beauty of it," Draco smirked. "That law only pertains to usury – and even then, it's fine if you do it to ‘heretics’ ‒ in other words, people of a different faith." His expression shifted into unholy glee. "As it happens, the Jews have a similar stricture. So neither can lend money for interest to their own folk, but they're perfectly comfortable – and within the law – dealing with the other's."

"How very … Slytherin," Harry murmured, keeping his face carefully blank.

"Yes, and proud of it!" Draco grinned, then sobered. "Mind, Zabini and ben Solomon aren't usurers; they may ask some reasonable interest on the money they lend, but business ventures can fail, so surely they're entitled to _some_ compensation for the risk they're taking in financing them."

"I see,” Harold nodded. “Still gives me a headache, though.” 

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it, Peverel,” Draco said loftily. “That’s what you have me for, after all.” 

_*Oh, that’s too good to pass up!*_

“And here I thought _you_ were just along to look pretty ‒ _Malfoy_ ,” he said, letting his eyes rake up and down his companion’s body in a way that sent a rush of blood into Draco’s cheeks … and to another part of _Harry’s_ anatomy in return. 

He ignored the resultant discomfort as best he could, and sat down on one of the cushioned benches in such a way that a casual observer wouldn’t notice how his breeches were straining between his legs. Draco did, but as the return of Zabini thankfully prevented him from commenting, Harry had only to contend with a knowing little smirk and several long, lingering glances as they went through the polite ritual of taking refreshments, spending some time chatting and with catching up on news before they dealt with business ‒ namely, presenting their gems, Letter of Credit and procuring information as well as local currency.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

They ended up spending nearly ten days in Girona ‒ not because they particularly wanted to, but their horses needed rest after the strenuous passage across the Pyrenées. Also, it took far longer than they’d anticipated to have clothing made that was suitable for the Iberian climate. The _Distrito del Mago_ only had one seamstress, and even with magic and some pre-cut clothes that only needed alterations there just wasn’t enough time to equip six grown men any faster.

Not that Harry and Draco particularly minded the delay. From here on out, they could follow the rather well-travelled coastal paths through the kingdoms of Aragón and Castile, where the terrain was much easier to negotiate. There’d be enough settlements along the way to restock their provisions if necessary … and most importantly, there was no war going on. While the King of Castile, though related, wasn’t exactly an ally of King Edward's, he was unlikely to offer hostility to a small group of Englishmen who were peacefully passing through his realm. Aragon was too busy waging war over the island of Sardinia to care about them, either. So, as long as they didn’t run afoul of the Church and the Inquisition, they should be safe.

Because of this last concern, they welcomed the prolonged stay even more. Harry knew, and impressed strongly on his companions, that they’d have to be extremely cautious about using magic once they left. “Exercise your wand skills carefully, but with discretion,” he ordered them, “and make sure that every item in our luggage can withstand an inspection by Muggles.”

So while they waited for their clothes, Draco and Harry spent a few hours each day with their men to make sure that the Notice-Me-Not spells would hold, that any Muggle-Repelling Charms would be subtle enough not to arouse suspicion, and that any items Shrunk or Transfigured for ease and convenience would be well-hidden among their visible, ‘normal’ luggage. 

At last, refreshed and well-provisioned, they set out on a Thursday morning towards the Kingdom of Granada.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**  
> 
> 
> **A/N:**  
>  _"El Cuervo Negro"_ is Spanish for "The Black Raven"  
>  _"Distrito del Mago"_ is Spanish for "magical district"  
>  _"caballos"_ is Spanish for "horses"  
>  _"abrir!"_ means "open!"  
>  _"Piedro del Oro"_ = stone of gold, ref. 'Goldstein'  
>  The idea of a merchant banking house called "Zabini and Goldstein" was taken – with permission – from GMWWemyss's "Evelake" series. (I had to work around the whole 'Goldstein-as-a-name' issue a bit, as Jews only used patronymic names in the 14th century.) Going by that premise, the Zabini family is from Lombardy, an Italian province, and Lombards historically were among the first who developed what we now know as banking … and actually worked in Catalonia in the late Middle Ages. Oh, and according to the HP Lexicon, Gringotts wasn't founded until 1474, and the Leaky Cauldron only in 1500!
> 
>   
>  **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**   
> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 7**

_1 May, 2014  
 **The Potters’ House, Godric's Hollow**_

Almost two hours had passed since Harry and Draco Malfoy had been encased ‒ Ginny _refused_ to think of it as ‘trapped’ ‒ by the magic emanating from the Black heirloom chalice. 

It was disturbing, not to mention heartbreaking, to see them standing like statues under the transparent golden dome, frozen in mid-motion.

_*At least they don’t look as if they’re hurt, or anything,*_ Ginny thought as she drifted back towards the abandoned Beltane altar. The branches of sacred wood were still smoldering in the fire basket, casting an eerie red glow over the scene now that darkness had fallen. She was glad that neither man seemed to be in distress, but the feeling brought her little comfort. Malfoy had always been difficult to read, even back at Hogwarts, and to her secret chagrin Harry had learned not to wear every emotion on his sleeve as he rose in the Auror ranks. She knew it was a necessary skill in his line of work, and even admired the self-control he’d acquired in the process ‒ well, sometimes, anyway ‒ but there were moments when she sorely missed the open, straightforward boy she’d fallen in love with so long ago.

_*And if anyone had told me back then I’d ever miss Harry’s temper and tendency to brood, I’d have hexed them into next year!*_

She smiled fleetingly as she remembered a few spectacular times when outbursts of both the Potter-Evans and Weasley tempers had clashed … and the times when they’d had even more spectacular sex to coax each other out of certain moods. Both Al and Lily had resulted from such an occasion. But all too soon anxiety and guilt returned, replacing the happier memories again.

She’d been so reluctant, even unwilling, to celebrate Beltane the way Harry wanted; had even actively resented that he’d spontaneously chosen to draw Malfoy into the Rite. Beltane, like all the traditional wizarding festivals, was rife with Old Magic ‒ what if whatever forces they’d called upon had sensed her state of mind and decided to punish her?

Ginny moaned softly as she sank into one of the chairs still standing near their altar, burying her face in her hands as she struggled to hold back tears. She couldn’t afford to cry; not when her children, and even her parents, were looking to _her_ for strength. A part of her knew it was irrational, even unfair; wasn't _Harry_ supposed to be the strong one?  
 _  
*This is what being 'The-Boy-Who-Lived' must've been like,*_ she realised. _*Harry tried to tell me, but I never knew …*_

It made her feel even worse about giving her husband so much grief over the Beltane celebrations as well as the quiet life he preferred. Then there were all the other, small things that Harry claimed relaxed him like nothing else and she found boring … if she was honest, her own preference more often than not was to bask in the attention they'd both _earned_ through hard work and dedication.  
 _  
*I'm going to stop doing that if Harry comes out of this alright,*_ Ginny promised silently. _*I'll never again-*_

She was startled out of her thoughts by a hand touching her shoulder and jerked back in surprise. "Wha- oh. Hermione?"

"I came to see how you're holding up," her sister-in-law murmured, sitting down next to her. "I know it can't be easy, seeing Harry like that."

"It's hell," Ginny sighed. "How did you and Ron stand it, all those years? No, don't answer that; I don't think I want to know."

Hermione chuckled ruefully. "Well, it sure wasn't easy."

Ginny snorted and let her eyes stray back towards the coruscating dome. "I used to envy you all the adventures you had with him," she murmured. "Now I see that actually _living_ them is no fun at all."

"No, it's not," Hermione agreed. "When it's all over and has ended well, it's different, but when you're right in the thick of it, sometimes all you can do is gibber with terror."

"I'm not quiteat _that_ stage yet. But I guess worried out of my mind comes fairly close."

Hermione nodded. "I've been there a few times," she said. "But apart from that … how _are_ you doing?"

Ginny closed her eyes and slumped back. "Truthfully? Pretty bad." She wiped her brow. "And you know what? It's not even this current situation, although that's bad enough. It's that I've …" She gulped, then drew a deep breath. "Harry and I have been fighting," she confessed. "Not often, and never for long, but it's been happening more and more lately."

"Let me guess – the last time was over today?" Hermione asked, suppressing a wince. She'd noticed the strain between Harry and Ginny at times, as well as the instances when it was most pronounced, and had drawn her own, not very pretty conclusions. However, this was hardly the time to delve deeply into issues not her own. 

Glumly, Ginny nodded. "I feel so guilty over arguing, given what's happening," she mumbled. "All I want right now is for Harry to come out of whatever's going on with the chalice and be _fine_." 

Hermione sighed inaudibly, having a rather accurate idea of what was going on in Ginny's mind. She'd bickered and fought with Ron often enough to recognise the symptoms in someone else – especially a good friend and relation. "But there's a part of you that feels vindicated, hmm?" she whispered at last.

The wash of colour staining Ginny's cheeks and neck was answer enough.

Feeling terribly inadequate, Hermione still gave the other woman the best answer she could.

"You'll work it out," she said, trying to put as much conviction into her words as possible as she hugged her sister-in-law. "Harry will come out of this scrape as he always does. Maybe a bit singed around the edges, yes, but he'll ultimately be okay. _You'll_ be okay.”

**  
)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 8**   
_May till December 1347_   
**_Granada_ **

"I look like a peasant," Draco grumbled each morning when they were saddling their horses. “In fact, we all do. It’s atrocious!” For some reason Harry had yet to fathom, he complained most bitterly that he had to forego wearing his stylish velvet beret with silver trim in favour of a plain but serviceable linen coif and wide-brimmed straw hat.

"We look like people who dress appropriately for the weather," Harry retorted each time, getting increasingly sharper as the days went by. All six men were now dressed in linen shirts, sturdy canvas breeches and suede brigandines they'd purchased in Girona to replace the much heavier wools, leathers and padded gambesons they'd worn all the way from England and across the Pyrenées. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to cope with the growing heat during the day. "But be my guest and don your velvets and other fripperies; it's no skin off _my_ nose if you get sunstroke, or burn that lovely pale skin you're so proud of to a crisp!"

"Mayhap that'd be better than looking like a Levant pirate, the way you do", Draco sniped back. But even he had to admit that the ride to their destination was less pleasurable than highly uncomfortable.

What pleasure there was came from the undemanding terrain, the availability of fresh produce and fish to augment their provisions, the usually friendly populace and the mild nights when they couldn't find an inn or other shelter and had to camp out. 

The discomfort on the other hand… well, they were on the road all day, every day, under an increasingly unrelenting sun and very little relief except for two day-long breaks to rest their horses. 

Of all of them, Harry seemed to cope best, and Draco couldn’t help but secretly envy Harry the ease with which he dealt with the climate. This arid, sun-drenched land seemed far more suited to the earthy, vigorous, barely-controlled energy Harry displayed than rainy Britain … and he wanted that energy turned exclusively on him! 

He also was all but salivating over the deep tan his compatriot's face, arms and hands were taking on from exposure to the sun. Harry's green eyes were spectacular against his messy black locks anyway, but now … now they looked like twin emeralds set in a bed of honeyed gold. 

By comparison, Draco felt washed-out, almost insignificant with his pale blond hair hanging straight to below his chin and stormy grey eyes that were more reminiscent of the skies of their homeland than the silver-brushed slate someone had once compared them to. Features that made him stand out at home in a pleasantly agreeable way seemed to have turned into nothing but shades of white on white here in al-Andaluz.

Back in In the parlours and great halls of Britain or France, he was used to drawing attention because of his wealth, his ice-prince countenance and air of aloofness. There, he was courted by men and women alike because they wanted to melt the ice; here on their quest, those same attributes had neither place nor purpose. However, with each passing day he discovered a growing contentment in simply basking in the fire that blazed from that green gaze. 

Moreover, it seemed Harry was experiencing something quite similar. 

For the more time they spent together in this lassitude-inducing climate, the more they both desired to get _close_. The exact manner of this closeness had yet to be expressed and defined by either, but Draco was fairly certain it would involve _touching_. He shivered with eagerness at the thought and, not for the first time, silently cursed the lack of privacy on their journey. He and Harry routinely shared a tent or room, but they were very much aware that their escort were always watching them. This was part of their job, true, and there'd been situations where their constant vigilance had served all of them well, but it was frustrating nonetheless.   
_  
*Hopefully things'll get better once we've reached Granada.*_

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

They didn't.

Not at first, anyway, because once they arrived in the bustling city in late May, they were forced to cool their heels at an inn while they waited for Abbas al-Bedali to consent to see them. It turned out that the man not only taught at the city's _madrasa_ , he also was in great demand as an apothecary – the one reply they'd had from him after they sent a message requesting a meeting said that he was a busy man and not about to drop everything just because some English dunderheads wanted to meet him.   
_  
"You'll wait until I'm ready to see you, or you can turn back from whence you came – I care not either way."_

"The nerve!" Draco fumed as he read the tersely-scribbled note. "Who does he think he is?"

"The foremost Potions master in several lands?" Harry replied, then lifted a placating hand when he saw his companion was about to explode with anger and indignation. "Look, I don't like his attitude either," he said. "But the fact is, _we_ need _him_ , not the other way 'round – and I suspect he knows that. Which means he can set the terms of when, where and how to meet us."

"But, but what about the letters of recommendation Zabini, Dumbledore and Prince Edward gave us? Surely he must've looked at them!"

Harold smiled slightly. "He probably has, or he might have refused outright. But what if he wants to determine whether we are willing to abide by his rules – whether we can make it worth his while and effort?"

Draco pondered this for a few moments. "You mean this is some kind of … of test?"

"It's possible," Harry shrugged. "I've certainly met commanders in the King's armies who used similar tactics on their subordinates. Being able to wait and obey can be just as important as quick thinking and the capacity to take decisive action at a moment's notice. This situation clearly demands the former."

Disgustedly, Draco balled up al-Bedali's note and threw it onto the table in their room. "I hate it when you're right."

"As you frequently remind me," Harry chuckled. "Come on, let's explore the city some more."

"Hmph." But he grabbed his cloak ‒ despite the heat, Draco would never want to appear anything but perfectly turned out ‒ and followed Harry down the stairs, through the tap room and out onto the narrow alley. 

"Any chance we can visit the baths again tonight?" he asked as they strolled along, making an attempt at nonchalance that didn't fool Harry one bit. When they'd handed in their travel-stained clothing to the inn's servants for washing, one of them had diffidently suggested they visit one of the city's _hammams_ to get rid of the rather pungent smell they'd inadvertently acquired on the road. Deciding it might be a good idea – cleansing charms could only take you so far – and having nothing better to do, they followed the advice and were astounded by what they found.

A _hammam_ , they discovered, was far more than just a public bathhouse. Especially in the bigger and better ones, there were not only basins filled with either hot or cold water to immerse oneself in, but sweat rooms to purge the body and relax in … and best of all, a veritable army of body servants whose only task was to care for all their clients' physical needs. 

Harry nearly groaned as he remembered his first-ever full-body massage. It had hurt at first when the attendant worked out all the kinks and aches he'd acquired through weeks of hard riding and living off the land, but eventually it had become pleasurable, and more. The subdued lighting in the room, the firm yet comfortable bench he was told to stretch out on, the scent of the oils being rubbed into his skin, the relaxation of tension he hadn't even been aware of anymore as strong, capable hands touched him all over – he never could be sure whether it would simply send him to sleep, or arouse him to near-fever pitch.

The latter, when it happened, was rather embarrassing, but mitigated by the fact that usually Harry’s exhaustion won out and would let him drift into a light doze. Unfortunately, this had the disadvantage of not being able to listen to Draco’s content moans behind the curtain separating their leather-padded benches. They were, however, the perfect fuel for the fantasies he indulged in regularly in his own bed once he knew Draco to be asleep.

For his part, Draco had been highly dubious at first. He'd quailed at the thought of letting Muggles touch him, and naked at that, but the incentive of getting truly clean for the first time in months proved to be irresistible in the end. Recognising most of the herbs in the oils and essences from Potions class and alchemical studies helped, too, and by the end of their first, hours-long treatment he was as enamoured of the process as Harry. Now he couldn't get enough of it, and tried to visit a _hammam_ at least every two or three days. 

Not that Harry minded – at least he now had a chance of seeingDraco naked. Of course he'd caught glimpses here and there on their journey; one couldn't share close quarters with another person for so long and _not_ do so, but there was very much a difference to just seeing a flash of chest, leg or arse while dressing or undressing. Once or twice, he'd even managed to sneak a peek at Draco's cock when he'd been relieving himself, and had dreamt about getting his hands on the rosy length ever since – but it was a far cry from lounging comfortably in a chest-deep pool of pleasantly-warm water next to each other, wholly unclothed and sipping chilled juice. The chance to ‘accidentally’ touch wasn’t to be dismissed, either. He could hardly wait to do it again.

"If that is what you want," was all he said.

"Oh, yes. There's nary a thing I want more."

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

The summer solstice was rapidly approaching when Abbas al-Bedali finally sent them a message to come to his house that evening after sundown. The Potions master awaited Harry and Draco in a walled courtyard at the back of the house. He wasn’t a handsome man with his lank black hair and eyes that contrasted sharply with his pale, sallow skin, but even seated struck an imposing figure.

"Good evening, Master Sneap," Harry began politely, only to be interrupted right away.

"That is no longer my name," the man said coldly. "I discarded it soon after your relatives executed my father." He spat the last word with considerable disdain, but that didn't make his comment less hostile.

Harry winced. "I am sorry for your loss, then," he murmured. Then he looked straight into al-Bedali's fathomless dark eyes. "But I am not Walter Paveley, nor did I make the laws your father broke."

"You _are_ related to the Paveleys, though."

"At several removes," Harry stated. "There's a distant connection we share through my grandfather Lionel Peverel." 

Al-Bedali laughed harshly. "Lionel the potter? Yes, boy, even here we've heard about his strange preoccupation." He smirked at the look of chagrin flitting across Harold's face. "It hardly behooves a nobleman to engage in such menial work, does it?"

"At least it's honest toil that feeds his family and those dependent on him," Harry replied, struggling to keep his temper under control. "That's more than can be said for a lot of others."

Abbas pursed his lips consideringly. "There is truth in that," he grudgingly conceded at last. "But would you care to be known as such?"

Harry shrugged. "Being a potter is an honest profession, and I for one would not be ashamed to adopt it as a name if it came to that in time."

"Well spoken. We'll see whether you mean it." Al-Bedali dismissed him with a wave and turned to Draco. "So … you're a _Mal_ foy. I wonder, is the name you carry also an indication of your ways and character?"

Draco drew a deep breath. "I do not know what you've heard about my family, Master Abbas, and I'll grant you that there may have been dealings by one or the other that some might call … questionable." He knew that his uncle's political machinations and business dealings often bordered on shady, but he'd be damned if he admitted such to a stranger. "But I assure you that I myself have yet to act in anything but _good_ faith towards my friends and those I trust."

"But not all of your fellow men?"

"I'll treat them as they'll treat me."

Draco met a stare penetrating enough that he was starting to feel as if the man could discern his innermost thoughts. It was a highly uncomfortable sensation, but he resisted the urge to squirm and bore it unflinchingly.

"Fair enough, I suppose." Al-Bedali gestured for them to sit at last. "Now, I've read the letters you brought me, but all they did was vouch for your integrity – that you are genuinely seeking my help. Tell me precisely why, and for what."

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

"… and that's all we can tell you," Harry concluded the recounting of everything that had brought them to this point – the prophecy, their journey, collecting the treasure of Montségur. "It's fairly straightforward what we must do once our task here is completed, provided you're willing to help, but this one sentence – 'When truce of fast prevails, star and messenger will join them at the master's house and help with ancient lore'," he quoted from the prophecy transcript, "is still a mystery."

Their host snorted. "Small wonder, as you're not living in a land under the Prophet Mahomet's rule," he said, stroking his short, neatly-trimmed beard. "One of the Five Pillars of al-Islam is to keep a time of fasting from sunset to sundown each year, called Ramadan. During this sacred month, charity and keeping the peace even with strangers is mandatory."

"So … 'truce of fast' most likely refers to this period?" Draco ventured.

"Yes. And I have an inkling what the word 'star' might mean; I shall make inquiries as needed. Hopefully, that will also shed light on the 'messenger'."

Draco shared a look with Harry. This certainly sounded as if the last secret of the prophecy was finally about to be solved. Unless …

"Master Abbas-"

"Call me Severus," al-Bedali interrupted him gruffly. "It's been a long time since I've spoken English, or heard the name my parents gave me from anyone's lips." His fierce glower told them that they'd pay dearly if they commented on such a show of sentiment, and Draco just nodded, hiding a small smile.

"Master Severus, then. What I was going to ask, though – when _is_ this sacred month? The year is almost halfway gone, and we _must_ be at Ynis Afallach come next Beltane, and it will take time to get back home."

"Yes – even if we can take a more direct route," Harry added. "We … we haven't missed it already, have we?"

"Unlike, say, the Christian Advent, Ramadan does not have a set time each year. As it happens, though, it almost coincides with that period this year, so no, you're in luck."

"That is a relief," Harry said. "Do you think there's sufficient time to prepare whatever you might help us with?"

Abbas – Severus – was silent for several minutes, clearly lost in thought. Finally, he looked back at the two younger men. "What _Dominus_ Prewett and the others are asking of me is tantamount to creating a Sovereign Specific, as we do not know what kind of plague will break out. Only, there _is_ no such thing as a universal remedy."

"I remember," Draco said. "Each potion, draught or elixir _must_ be tailored to what it's supposed to cure, or it might accidentally poison instead of heal."

"Exactly. Well, I can already think of a proper starting point or two, and will discuss those with you in the morning. Come again after breaking your fast." He got up, clearly ending the conversation, and ushered them towards the door. 

Just as they were about to step out, he held them back. "One more thing – don't _ever_ mention the prophecy, or when and how it was obtained, to anyone here. Wizards are tolerated in Islam, but soothsaying and astrology are strictly forbidden by their Holy Book – and the reason you're here falls under both. So if you don't want to be put on trial for heresy, or worse, you'll keep your mouths shut on this."

"We understand, Master Severus," Harry said.

"You have our word on it," Draco added. "And our thanks."

A sudden, almost predatory smile flashed across the saturnine features. "Don't thank me yet, gentlemen – I have every intention of making you work for what you're asking. I hope for your sakes that you're not complete dunderheads at potions. Good night!"

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

Life with the Potions Master soon turned into a routine. Harry and Draco made arrangements for their men for a prolonged stay – they found lodging at a farm right outside the city gates, worked by a wizarding family who appreciated the help of four strapping young men at the start of harvesting season.

Harry and Draco themselves moved into Severus' house, to research and experiment for a remedy they could take home. One of their men usually stayed with them, to serve as a general factotum and guard.

They started their research at the very basics, with a general-purpose Detoxification Elixir. Most of the compounds needed for that could be sourced locally, so there was no danger of running out ‒ they simply brewed fresh batches as needed. 

Then the fun part began … or so Draco claimed, at least. To Harry, it was tedious beyond belief. They experimented with all sorts of modifications in quick succession; eventually deciding that adding prunella leaves for their all-healing properties, dittany as a restorative and pomegranate juice to make it both palatable as well as for strengthening purposes proved suitable. 

Unfortunately, Harry's bad eyesight turned out to be a handicap – he could see well enough in close quarters, or so he thought, but not well enough to meet Severus’ exacting standards. He was barely able to slice or cut evenly, was often prone to miss impurities and on occasion even made errors when two ingredients looked and felt too similar to be easily distinguished. 

Because of the inevitable vapors and strong scents, wearing his torc was also inadvisable, as his headaches worsened even more whenever he did. As for casting the temporary Sight-Enhancing Charms … well. They quickly abandoned _that_ procedure when the Charm once fizzed out right in the midst of experimenting with some magical components. The results were anything but pretty.

"I could've told you I'm useless at this," he coughed after they'd had to quickly leave the laboratory one afternoon to let the fumes from one such botched attempt dissipate. "I tried, but …"

"You're certainly more of a hindrance than help at the actual brewing." Severus nodded sharply once, not one to sugarcoat things. "But that doesn't mean you cannot assist in other ways."

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

Thus it came about that Harry was tasked with searching and foraging for, and if necessary buying, the materials they needed, which often necessitated long trips into the countryside, or even to other cities that had a larger wizarding population.

Harry was cheerful about it; he liked the opportunity of spending time with Ronald or Seamus, one of whom usually accompanied him on these forays. Both, but especially Ronald, were also quite helpful with it, again acting as his ‘eyes’ when necessary. But whenever he had to stay away from Granada overnight, he found he missed Draco – his wit, the banter they shared, and the closeness developing between them.

It wasn't all business, either – Abbas al-Bedali couldn't very well neglect his teaching duties nor his apothecary, no matter how much Severus might enjoy both the intellectual challenge of creating a new potion and having a competent apprentice/helper in Draco for the brewing thereof. Consequently, Harry and Draco often had whole days free of duties, and they used them well. 

They explored the city and the surrounding areas, marveling at the grandeur and scope of the palace and university the Emir was building, and delighted in being able to eat exotic delicacies like olives, citrus fruit and almonds picked freshly from their trees, like apples and pears back home in France or Albion. They discovered the simple joys of being on the beach and swimming in the pleasantly-warm sea; on other days, they hunted with their men, augmenting Severus' table, and every now and then even managed some weapons practice, which helped keep Harry's skills sharp and greatly improved Draco's proficiency. For Ronald had made the acquaintance of a sergeant in the Emir's guard, and struck a bargain that he would teach a few select men to handle an English longbow in return for training with the shorter Moorish bow on horseback. It turned out to be a mutually-beneficial arrangement, and helped to establish their personas as friendly visitors rather than suspicious interlopers. 

A minor disturbance occurred around Lammas in early August when Seamus discovered the fortified wine from Xeres and inevitably overindulged. Draco managed to avert potential disaster by some very smooth – and fast – talking to the Magistrate, a hefty 'donation' to the man's coffers and by signing a mutually-agreeable trade contract, vouched for by the House of Piedro del Oro. Harry ordered a much-chastened Seamus to stay on the farm as much as possible from then on, and relied more on Vincent and Gregory to attend them around the city. 

However, these days of carefree fun, during which Harry and Draco's friendship grew more intense and slowly transformed into something neither young man was quite ready to define yet, were often cut short at a moment's notice. Necessity – and Severus – frequently brought them back to the reality of why they'd come to Granada when their experiments heated up, or Harry was needed to procure new or fresh ingredients from further afield. The day trips weren’t too bad, but in mid-September Severus sent him on the longest one yet ‒ a whole week-long ride to the seaport of Málaga, where he was to buy a quantity each of salamander blood to augment the pomegranate, and bezoars off a fresh shipment from Egypt. Both showed promise for the remedy they were trying to create.

On his return, he left Ronald and his mount at the farm outside the city walls, and carried the ingredients in a pouch securely fastened to his belt. When Harry reached the Potion master's house, he let himself in and stored his package in the stillroom while the jar of blood went into a cooling chest. Job done, he walked back into the kitchen where Aishe, the housekeeper, was bustling around. The smells of camphor, cypress oil, sassafras and a plethora of other things permeated the air, and he was certain they'd be clinging to Draco's skin, hair and clothes no matter how well Severus' workspace was ventilated.  
 _  
*Guess it's the hammam for both of us tonight.*_

"Aishe, is there some fruit or cheese?" he wheedled. "And some cold milk, maybe? It's hot and dusty outside, and I'm starving!"

"Master Abbas and young Tenyen will be finished with their day's work soon, my Asad," she told him with a toothless smile on her lined face. "You should rest, not spoil your appetite!"

"Just a few bites, Aishe," he laughed. "I'll be hungry enough again come nightfall, I promise you! And if I know Draco at all, he'll be as eager to wash off the smells and clingy bits from today's brewing as I am to rid myself of the dust and dirt I've collected on the road before we sit at the table."

"I should think so," she agreed after a moment's thought. "Very well." She quickly fixed him a plate with crisp green apple slices and a chunk of soft goat's cheese, along with a goblet of cool water fresh from the well. "Enjoy yourselves if you can; with magistrate Hasan ben Omar's wedding on the morrow, the bathhouses will be full tonight."

"We can go to Malik's, then," Harry replied. "He doesn't have the nice big pools to lounge in, which is a shame, but he'll get us clean, and the massages are as good as anywhere else."

"I shall so tell Master Abbas," the old woman nodded. "Now drink and eat, and wait for Tenyen to come to you."

Harry smiled as he watched her shuffle outside, presumably to tell Draco that he'd returned. The housekeeper had taken a liking to them both, and when ordered to keep their true names to herself as best she could, invented her own names for them so she could gossip freely with the other women. He'd become Asad, the lion, and Draco was now called Tenyen, from the Arabic word for dragon. Severus had scoffed and still made scathing remarks, but both Draco and Harry found they quite liked the appellations.

When he'd finished his snack, he wandered off to the room he shared with Draco and quickly rolled up some fresh clothes; some loose linen pants, sandals and a burnous would suffice, and be much more comfortable in the lingering heat than the sweat-soaked, dust-caked breeches he'd been wearing all week. Soon, Draco breezed into their chamber in a miasma of conflicting smells, gave him a quick embrace and immediately started complaining about the amount of dirt and _things_ Harry always seemed to be covered with when he returned from one of his trips.

“And as if having to put up with the way you stink of horse isn’t bad enough, I can hardly see straight anymore,” he groused. “The light in the laboratory is always so low, it’s making my eyes constantly water until they hurt.”

“So put up more candles, or torches or whatever,” Harry suggested.

“Can’t. If we light more lamps, the added heat as well as the increased light could alter the efficacy of some ingredients. Plus, standing at my cauldron all day is making my feet ache, and I’m nearly certain I’ll end up a hunchback.” 

Harry patted his shoulder in commiseration, but couldn’t resist a tiny jibe. “I thought someone said this was all fun?”

“The idiot should be drawn and quartered, and his remains left for the vultures in the field!” 

“Impossible,” Harry said. 

“Why?!?”

“Because the idiot was you, and I prefer to keep you in one piece, thank you very much.”

“Hmph.” Draco glowered at his friend, then went to his clothes chest to make up his own bundle of fresh garments. He cursed as he unlocked the clasp and began to knead his fingers.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, alarmed. 

“Nothing I can really help.” Draco winced. “My hands are just cramping up from stirring and using mortar and pestle from morning till night.”

"So let's do something about it," Harry suggested innocently. "A bath and rubdown will do you good; I imagine you're as eager for a thorough cleansing as I am."

Draco wasn't fooled by Harry's air for a second, but went along with the suggestion, eyes sparkling in anticipation. "Merlin, yes. I've spent all day bent over the cutting board and cauldron, chopping and stirring, dicing and slicing …"

"Better you than I, Tenyen," Harry smiled, drinking in his appearance. The blond hair was disheveled and limp, the elegant fingers stained with he knew not what, and there even was a smudge of soot on one flushed cheek. "Just as I think you're glad Severus is leaving the travelling to me instead of sending you, no?" Giving in to a sudden impulse, he carefully wiped off the soot with his hand.

Draco cupped his own hand around Harry's, holding it still against the side of his face. His grey eyes were wide and searching. "Asad …"

Harry's breath caught in his throat. "Not here," he whispered. "Not while Severus and Aishe are still awake."

Draco nodded. "Show me where," he murmured.

"Then come with me."

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

As Aishe had predicted, all the major _hammams_ were filledto capacity with the magistrate's wedding guests, so they wandered the streets until they reached the small establishment of Malik the Barber. Even there they found more clients than usual, and the proprietor apologized profusely that they'd either have to share, or wait quite some time until he could accommodate them separately.

"Sharing is fine," Harry said, “as long as we'll have privacy and get your best treatment.” His eyes never left Draco's, who just nodded his acquiescence. 

This, Malik could promise them. 

They were led to a small room in which to undress, and were given cotton sheets to wrap around them. Following the by now familiar routine, they avoided looking at each other, both being too weary to enjoy the sight. Next, they entered a tiled room where they lay down naked on a huge marble slab covered only with another thin sheet. Harry squirmed a little until he found a position that was halfway comfortable ‒ unyielding stone would _never_ be his first choice to spend any length of time on. But it was the most convenient, he supposed, as two servants stepped up to the slab, each carrying a large tub filled with warm water. Using shallow bowls as ladles, they rinsed them down gently, removing most of the sweat and dirt. 

Both men sighed in pleasure; the small discomfort caused by the hard surface they were lying on was more than made up for by the simple relief of feeling _clean_ again. Next, the grooms scrubbed them down with a rough sponge, poured more water and then fetched a bucket filled with a soapy liquid. Knitted cloth tubes were soaked in it, then swirled vigorously through the air until the soap fluffed up into an incredibly soft foam. This was then used to coat their bodies from head to foot, from their scalps to between each finger and toe.

And if their legs touched at any point as they turned this way or that, or if they linked hands sometimes, well, the servants were too well-schooled to be anything but totally discreet. 

Thoroughly cleansed by the procedure at last, their attendants bade them stand, rinsed them off with yet more warm water, gave them back their sheets and led them onto a small terrace where an inviting-looking pile of cushions was stacked around a low table.

"Please wait here," one of the servants told them, deftly arranging a tray with raisins, almonds and tiny cups of fragrant, sweet mint tea within easy reach. "Have some refreshments, and someone will fetch you once we can minister to your needs." 

Harry and Draco sank onto the pillows, enjoying the light breeze springing up as the sun disappeared behind the mountains and darkness began to fall. Idly nibbling on the snacks, they talked softly, telling each other what they'd accomplished in the week Harry had been away.

"I think we're close to a breakthrough," Draco murmured. "Severus is optimistic that the last blood-purifying draught he's found in an old grimoire will take well to powdered bezoar and the other ingredients you've bought. We originally thought to add frozen Ashwinder eggs to relieve ague, but …"

"Even I know that those have to be swallowed whole, Draco," Harry chuckled. "They'd be no good in a potion. Besides, how could we _keep_ them frozen on the way home? It’d be bloody hard on the road, especially without magic."

"There’s that, too." Draco sipped his tea, licking the sugary sweetness from his lips afterwards. "We’ve also thought about using Murtlap tentacles to protect against curses and jinxes, but they, too, need to be eaten, so …” He continued to ramble on about the various experiments, but Harry soon stopped listening, preferring to watch the mobile mouth and the smooth throat stretch and turn as Draco talked, drank and ate. He only emerged from his pleasant daze when he heard his name being called.

"Harry? _Harry_!"

"Hmmm?"

Harry finally focused enough to meet a pair of amused, silver-grey eyes. 

"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" Draco asked.

"Of course I have – you were talking about, erm, Ashwinder eggs?" Harry said.

"Yes – about five minutes ago." Draco huffed, torn between laughter and exasperation. "You should’ve said something if hearing about Severus’ and my work is boring you enough to send your head that high into the clouds."

"I wasn't bored … just distracted."

The way Harry was staring at his lips as he said this made Draco's heart stutter.

"Do I want to know by what?" he breathed, leaning slightly forward.

"I think you already do," Harry murmured, daringly reaching out to touch a lean shoulder.

The moment was shattered by the bath attendant's return.

"We're ready for you now, _efendis_. If you will follow me?"

Suppressing a groan, Harry rose stiffly from the mound of pillows, surreptitiously rearranging the folds of the sheet around his hips to hide his rising excitement. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Draco doing the same, and felt his heart stutter in his chest.

Thankfully, by the time they reached the dimly-lit massage room, they were back in a state that allowed them to lie down on the twin padded benches without embarrassment. Harry let his eyes drift shut as the body servant coated his hands with scented oil and began to rub it into his skin. As usual, he mentally catalogued the four kinds of oil that had gone into the mixture, the number signifying rest and health. _*Hmm … ginger, lavender, cinnamon and … cedar, I think.*_ Next to him, a second attendant was doing the same for Draco, and Harry smiled as he listened to the soft grunts and moans pouring from his friend. 

Eventually, all remaining tension got worked out of his back and limbs and he was able to give himself up to the more pleasurable aspects of the massage, turning as directed. When he was done, Harry found himself on his back, his hips covered with just a linen towel.

"Rest now, _efendis_ ; come and join us again when you're ready," Draco's attendant murmured as he set a bowl of water on top of the brazier, pouring a small splash of rose and sandalwood oil each into it. Almost immediately, a light vapor rose from the bowl, permeating the room’s air and thus changing the atmosphere from refreshing and soothing to something more intimate … almost sensual. Somehow, it managed to blend seamlessly with the fragrance of the oils still clinging to their skin. Done with his task, the servant then closed the door softly behind himself and his colleague.

Harry enjoyed just feeling relaxed and content for a while, concentrating on his own breathing and the muted sounds coming through the narrow window slit high up against the ceiling. Somewhere in the city nearby, a woman was singing a slow melody, its cadence unfamiliar and the words unintelligible. It was a sweet, calming sound, though, and fit perfectly with the glow of one brazier in the corner and the candlelight flickering from the lone lantern hanging above the two benches. 

Languidly, Harry shifted onto his side so he could look at the second bench. Draco was lying on his front, his head resting on folded arms as he looked back. His smooth, well-oiled back glistened in the refractions from the jewel-toned glass panes of the lantern, and the round swell of his arse called for his touch, inadequately covered by Draco’s own towel as it was.

"I missed you." The soft words were almost inaudible, but Draco could read them shaping on Harry's lips. He smiled, holding that smoldering gaze.

"I missed you, too," he replied just as softly, waited several heartbeats and added, "Will you show me how much?"

Harry's breath caught. "Now?"

"Yes."

Harry slid off his bench in one sinuous motion, not caring that the towel covering his groin fell to the floor and that he was fully exposed to Draco. Neither did it matter that the hungry look in those silver eyes caused his blood to flow down and pool between his legs, making his cock rise to full attention.

Prowling across the few steps separating them, Harry placed his hand in the middle of that inviting expanse of skin. Draco shivered at the touch, but not with cold. Harry could feel the fine tremors in his muscles, and his own knees threatened to give out under him.

“Move over a little,” he requested. 

“Mmn.” The huskiness in Harry’s voice was exciting to Draco, so he hastened to obey, using the occasion to spread his legs a little so that he was no longer pressing his erection into the bench. 

Harry stretched out next to Draco, discarding the scrap of cloth from the full arse and gathered him close. Both moaned at the full-body contact. Draco's eyes flitted towards the door, and Harry obligingly waved his hand, murmuring one of the few simple spells he could perform wandlessly. _"Colloportus."_

__Safe now from being disturbed, Draco relaxed against Harry. "Thanks," he whispered, then performed a saucy wink. "Now, do your worst."

Harry scowled playfully even as his hands began to wander all over the gloriously bare skin he'd craved to touch for months. "My worst?" he protested, nipping at the smooth throat. "Don't you mean best?"

"I'm not sure I could stand your best," Draco admitted, arching breathlessly under that hot, questing mouth. "Not and live to tell the tale – aaah, yes, there. Again!"

“One of these days, I’ll devour you from head to foot,” Harry promised, licking slowly down the throbbing vein behind Draco's ear. “When we’re in our own room, behind a locked door, the strongest silencing ward I know and when nobody will be able to disturb us.”

“That sounds like a perfect plan to me.” Draco all but purred as he burrowed closer into the muscled chest. “But what will you do in the meantime?”

Harry laughed softly. “Oh, I have a few ideas.” He slid one hand up and around until he could tilt up the pale face and bent towards the slightly-parted lips. “How about I start with this?”

Draco sighed into the kiss. It was by no means his first, but never had another person’s mouth felt so scorching hot and yet so gentle as Harry’s inquisitive tongue delved deep, engaging his own in an age-old dance.

“Mm. More,” he demanded when Harry withdrew with a final teasing lick. He was rewarded with a gentle tug on his hair.

“Patience, my dragon,” Harry chided. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you everything you could ever want.”

“Promises, promises …”

Those were the last coherent words Draco spoke for a long time as Harry began to explore his body in earnest. Kiss after kiss was given not only on his lips, but cheeks, nose and throat before that maddening mouth wandered downwards, skimming across his collarbones and further towards his chest. Draco hadn’t known that his nipples could be so sensitive, but he arched into the deft fingers with a low cry when Harry gently pinched and twisted the pale-brown nubs into hard pebbles. And when Harry started to lick, nip and suck on them, it was all Draco could do not to scream with pleasure.

Draco writhed under the sensuous onslaught, barely able to stay on the narrow bench. He was desperate for friction against his straining cock, but the slipperiness left behind by the massage oils wouldn’t give him enough purchase. 

“Harry,” he moaned. It was as if the man could read his mind ‒ strong thighs clamped around his hips, and Draco could finally thrust and rub against the heat of Harry’s own blood-filled cock while he was held securely in sinewy arms. 

He was kissed time and again until he was breathless, lost to all but sensation. “Yes … yes …” he panted, frantic with need, but it wasn’t enough, he wasn’t quite getting there … 

A low growl rose from his throat when Harry flipped onto his back so that Draco was lying fully on top of him. Harry briefly removed one of his hands and held Draco in place with the other clamped to his hip. Draco moaned again and dragged his eyes open, only to meet such a burning intensity in the green eyes that he couldn’t help but shudder.

The full lips parted with a delighted laugh. “Who knew you’d be so sensitive? And so eager?” Harry brought his free arm back and unerringly placed his hand on the cleft of Draco’s arse. Even through his arousal, Draco could feel that it was slick with oil, and he could feel his insides coil. .

“Relax, Tenyen,” Harry murmured, claiming his mouth again.

Draco hazily thought that this was excellent advice and did his best to comply, but gasped when he realised that Harry was inserting a finger into his arse. He instinctively clenched around the intruder, but it wouldn’t be dislodged. At first, there was just a gentle pressure that could’ve hurt but _didn’t_ ; then, as the finger slowly burrowed deeper, followed a stretching sensation that tickled and teased, threatened and promised all at the same time. 

Draco whimpered and instinctively wiggled his behind against that tantalising touch. Harry started to move the digit in shallow little thrusts, sliding deeper and deeper into Draco’s bowels with each and every one, all the while whispering words of comfort, praise and encouragement into Draco’s ear.

“You’re beautiful, you’re wonderful, I want you so much, oh Draco, open to me, let me make you feel good …”

There were kisses ‒ oh, what kisses! They plundered his mouth, they caressed his eyes, they laved his lips, and Draco thought he might die if they ever stopped. And still that finger, now joined by a second, then a third, went deeper as they rocked against each other. 

He wanted more, he wanted it to end, he didn’t truly know _what_ he wanted, he only knew that he needed … needed …

And then that need was met when Harry brushed against a spot deep inside of him he’d never known existed. It burned like ice, like fire, it was as if someone had stabbed him with a stiletto or hit him with a club, and yet there was no pain. 

It tore him open and filled a void. It was nothing, yet everything. It was Harry.

Draco’s cock pulsed once, twice, and with a strangled cry he spilled his seed against his lover. He shook with the force of his release and clung to the arms holding him as if they were the only lifeline in a sea of sensation that threatened to drown him. 

When the last tremor finally subsided, he lay limply on Harry’s chest, his whole body suffused with colour. Draco had never lost control like this before, and he didn’t know how to react now that he had. What would Harry think of him?

“You’re amazing.”  
 _  
*Oh.*_

He cautiously opened one eye. Harry was smiling at him in a way he could hardly describe. There was joy, pride, satisfaction, desire … oh. A hard length was still throbbing gently against Draco’s belly, and he gasped as it twitched with his involuntary movement. Harry had just given him the most perfect release, and he immediately decided he wanted to return the favour, but … how? Harry’s fingers were still buried deeply in Draco’s arse, he felt weak like a kitten, so how could he‒

“Will you do something for me, Tenyen?”

“Anything!” Draco vowed immediately. Then he quailed a little. “If … if you tell me what to do, or how,” he murmured, a vivid blush staining his cheeks. “I … I do not know …”

Harry slid his free hand into Draco’s hair and kissed him most thoroughly. Draco sighed happily, but pouted when it was over and Harry let him slide off his chest and onto the bench, removing his fingers from Draco’s arse in the process. “You don’t have to do much, Tenyen,” he said huskily. “Just … watch?”  
 _  
*Watch what?*_ Draco wondered, but found his answer almost right away. For Harry grabbed a vial of oil the bath attendants had left ‒ _*probably the same one he used to breach me,*_ Draco realised ‒ and poured some into his palm. Then he lay back and wrapped his now slick hand around his long, thick cock and began to stroke himself. 

At first, Draco couldn’t help feel some embarrassment ‒ he’d _never_ watched another person pleasure themselves, not even in the Hogwarts dormitories ‒ but that soon gave way to curiosity. He certainly knew how to perform this act on himself, and saw the similarities. But Harry did some things differently, like that little twist he did with his fingers around the tip that made him tremble each time. Or the way he ran the pad of his thumb over the slit, spreading the glistening moisture … Harry also tugged and squeezed his balls as he pumped up and down, slow and gentle at first, then hard and fast, then only with the barest touch of his fingertips …

“I didn’t know there were so many ways to do this,” Draco murmured, feeling slightly overwhelmed. He was no virgin, but no woman he’d bedded had ever touched him like this, or so elaborately, and the couple of times he’d been with men had been furtive, quick encounters he’d rather prefer to forget. . 

Harry chuckled rather breathlessly. “I’ll show you each and every one of them, if you want,” he panted. “Everything I’ve ever learned, I’ll teach you.”

“You will?” Draco’s eyes widened. It was an intoxicating thought … followed immediately by a surge of jealousy towards the persons with whom Harry had earned his expertise. _*I must learn enough, and quickly, so that he’ll never want to be with anyone else but me,*_ he vowed silently before he was distracted by yet another scorching kiss.

“Next time,” Harry promised when they could speak again and he resumed stroking himself, at a slightly faster pace. He watched with slitted eyes how intensely Draco was watching him. Even his hand was twitching, as if he would like to … Harry inwardly rejoiced. He’d hoped to find a willing bed partner in Draco, but who could have expected that he’d be so adventurous from the start? Maybe he could already show him the next step. 

“It’s even better when someone else helps,” he suggested slyly before the urgency to rush to completion became too much. The smile Draco gave him in return was equal parts delight and calculation, with just a hint of shyness. Harry loved it. “Would you like to?”

"No," Draco breathed, then immediately amended it to "I'd _love_ to!"

So he did, wrapping his slender fingers around the root of Harry’s cock, squeezing and stroking in a rhythm at once new and familiar, and within moments Harry, too, tumbled over the precipice into release.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**
> 
>   
>  __  
> **A/N:** Hammam = the Middle Eastern version of a spa (a combination sauna/bathhouse/steam bath/massage parlour etcetera). In Turkey, it also refers to the foam massage/body peeling described in this chapter. ( **Note #2:** traditional Islamic practice does  not condone sex in a Hammam, as both the place and the procedure are part of the ritual cleansing ‒ the ablutions ‒ involved in prayer. Please forgive the artistic license.)  
> The ingredients in the various potions and lotions mentioned actually do have the ascribed properties ‒ both natural and magical. ;-) See Wikipedia, resp. the HPWikia.  
> Málaga has been one of the main ports in Spain since the 6th century BC, so choosing it as a go-to place for exotic goods seemed right. (Incidentally, all distances and/or travel times are more or less accurate!)  
> Efendi, pl. efendis = an Arabic term (of Turkish origin) for an educated gentleman, also meaning "lord" or "master". Used as a respectful form of address or title, roughly equals "sir(s)".  
> "Colloportus" = locking charm
> 
> **  
> )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 9**   
_September 21, 1347_  
**_Stonehenge_ **

Wulfric Dumbledore and Jacobus Prewett slowly made their way back from the great stone circle on Salisburie Plain, having taken part in the Autumn Equinox festivities. The harvest at Lammas, in early August, had been good this year, and had continued to be until tonight, three weeks into September, when they were celebrating Mabon in thanksgiving for the land’s bounty. And all this despite the threat of the as-yet unnamed coming evil hanging over them! 

"Good evening, professors!"

Prewett turned around at the cheerful hail, squinting a little against the haze of an early autumn sunset.

"Why, Meliora Warne! I must confess, I hadn't expected to see you here!"

The young woman curtsied to her former teachers after they'd stepped aside in order to not hinder the departure of others. "It's Trelawney now, _Domine_ Prewett," she said with a smile, a becoming blush blooming on her face. "I have been wed since Yule last."

"And a babe already on the way, I see," Dumbledore chuckled, eyeing the visible swell under her bodice. "Well done, Goody Trelawney!"

"It's why my husband and I made the journey to Stonehenge." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "We don't have as big a celebration for the Goddess on Bodmin Moor, and I like Mabon better than Michaelmas." 

Prewett raised an iron-grey brow. "So you're following the Old Ways?"

Meliora's hand drifted to the wand not quite hidden in the folds of her skirt. "We'll be observing the Feast of the Archangels at home a week hence, too." She straightened her back defiantly. “But Trystan and I both grew up honouring the Goddess, and we think She won't mind if we follow the new ways as long as we don't forget Her."

"You may well be right, child." Prewett nodded approvingly. "After all, there's magic in both, if of a different kind." 

Meliora beamed, then tilted her head. "That's why I wanted to speak to you," she began; inhaling deeply as if she was going to shout across the plain, or impart a dangerous secret. "If you wouldn't mind – that is, Trystan and I wondered – do you think that –" She broke off, pressing both hands to her reddening cheeks. "Oh heavens, I'm making such a mess of this!" 

"It matters not, Goody Trelawney," Dumbledore said soothingly. "Just breathe and start again."

"Just like you taught me at school, yes?" She giggled, but calmed down quickly by following the advice. "Very well – my husband and I would be honoured if you'd consent to share breaking the Dark Goddess's bread with us, and maybe give us a blessing over it – if it isn't too much of an imposition?" 

The Headmaster graciously inclined his head, knowing his colleague wouldn’t object. "The honour would be entirely ours, Meliora."

"Thank you, _Magistri_. If you'll follow me, then?" With that, she led them a ways back, to the edge of the forest circling the henge where Trystan Trelawney was already waiting by a small tent. 

"Be welcome at our fire," the young man said in a booming voice that sounded as if he had a permanent _Sonorus_ cast on it. Jacobus, who was sensitive to such things, smothered a wince and thought he was well-named indeed – Trystan meaning 'the loud one' in the Cornish language. Thankfully, it was Meliora who had to live with the man, not he.

After Meliora had set out the traditional bread, apple butter and some cider, they all joined hands around the small table for the blessing.  


_"Equal hours of light and darkness_  
_we celebrate the balance of Mabon,_  
_and ask the gods to bless us._  
_For all that is bad, there is good._  
_For that which is despair, there is hope._  
_For the moments of pain, there are moments of love._  
_For all that falls, there is the chance to rise again._  
_May we find balance in our lives_  
_as we find it in our hearts,"_ Prewett recited.

The other three repeated the last two lines, and Jacobus finished with "May the next turn of the Wheel bring us loveand compassion, abundance and prosperity,fertility and life.As the moon above, so the earth below."

Meliora whispered the closing phrase again, her hands resting on her swollen belly as she did so. Then she shook herself much like a wet Crup puppy and laughed when Wulfric told them to ‘tuck in’, just like he always did at the evening meals at Hogwarts. She deftly handed out thick slices of her bread, spooned up the Apple Butter and poured cider for each before joining the men in their harvest meal. 

When the conversation inevitably turned to reminiscing about their school days ‒ Trelawney had attended Hogwarts a few years ahead of his wife ‒ Dumbledore leaned towards the Headmaster’s ear. 

“Should we mention the prophecy she made three years ago? We _are_ living through it right now.” 

Prewett shook his head. 

“I don’t believe it would be advisable. Best to keep it secret among those who were witnesses and the other few who had a need to know.”

“What about the husband?”

“I do not believe he was ever told,” Prewett said. “Nor should he be ‒ he’s decent enough, but strikes me as the type to blab when in his cups. And as Meliora herself retains no memory of the incident, it might only embarrass her to learn she’s once been a Seeress, but is no more.” 

So they kept quiet, even though the prophecy was very much on their minds. News from Granada were sparse, and what with tonight’s Harvest celebration, it was easy to wish their young envoys might find success. 

A pleasant hour passed, then the two older men decided to take their leave. As they stepped outside the tent, the harvest moon stood high in the sky. "A good night for stargazing," Dumbledore said idly, fastening his cloak. "I wager that Jacobus and I will have a good time of it when we walk from Hogsmeade to the castle." 

"I remember that walk," Meliora agreed. "But the moon and stars were always at their most beautiful seen from the Astronomy Tower …" Her voice trailed off, and a faraway look entered her eyes.

"Meliora? Wife, what ails you?" Trystan asked in surprise. Standing closest, he was the first to notice something wasn't right. When she began to sway alarmingly, he caught her in his arms. "Professors, help!" 

Alarmed, Wulfric and Jacobus rushed back. Together, they maneuvered the young woman back inside and carefully stretched her out on a quickly-transfigured cot. Dumbledore drew his wand and attempted to cast a diagnostic charm, but as soon as the magic touched Meliora; her eyes rolled back in her head and she spoke in a deep, raspy voice.

" _Ere Dragon and Warrior knights have done their duty, black and stern magic must needs set a plague upon both your houses lest they perish forever. But unbeknownst to master and star, Asterion's daughter will add a geas: Only when the beast's years have passed since the day of the land's anointing will your hands touch the vessel once more. As you are about to give Beltane's blessing, her mercy will revoke the sacrifice demanded by the silent magic set on the holy cup since days long gone and reunite two souls."_ A pause, then she started over. _"Ere Dragon and Warrior knights have done their duty …"_

The two older wizards shared a look. “I’d say she’s more of a Seeress than we knew,” Dumbledore muttered.

“Yes. Buggeration!” Prewett swore, uncharacteristically. “What to do now?” 

"What's happening, professors? What's wrong with my wife, what does this mean?" Trelawney’s forehead was creased with worry.

Prewett drew a deep breath. "Nothing of import, Trystan," he said, giving Dumbledore a surreptitious nod. "Young Meliora just felt faint for a minute. It happens sometimes when one is expecting for the first time. Do not concern yourself with it."

"But –" He never got to complete whatever he intended to say, because at that moment a spell from Dumbledore's wand hit him full on.  
__  
"Obliviate!"

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

An hour later, back at Hogwarts, the two men retired to the headmaster's office. "I feel bad about doing that to the Trelawneys," Dumbledore muttered, downing half a goblet of strong wine in two gulps.

"It was necessary, old friend," Jacobus sighed. "Prophecy isn't something to trifle with, and the fewer know about this, the better."

"You think it's genuine, then?"

"As much as her first, I wager. Especially as they seem to be related."

Dumbledore grimaced and finished his wine. "Oh yes – Dragon and Warrior knights … it almost _has_ to refer to young Draco and Harold, no?"

"I'm certain of it," Headmaster Prewett said grimly as he sat down at his desk, taking out parchment and quill. "Write it down; use the Pensieve if you must for the precise wording. Meanwhile, I shall call a meeting with Prince Edward and the rest of our council."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**
> 
>   
> _**A/N:** Salisburie ‒ medieval spelling for Salisbury, Wiltshire. Sarum is the name of the oldest settlement in the same place._  
>  _Mabon = September 21, the Autumnal Equinox. A harvest festival. Christianised in the Middle Ages into Michaelmas, on September 29. AKA "Feast of the Archangels"._  
>  _‘Goodwife’ and its short form ‘goody’ are medieval forms of address to women not of the nobility. For men, the equivalent was ‘Goodman’, of course. See also 'Goody Two-Shoes'._  
>  _The prayers and the concept of 'Dark Mother's Bread with Apple Butter' were taken from the PaganWiccan pages at www.about.com, as are the closing lines I have Headmaster Prewett say, though from a slightly different ceremony._  
>  _Asterion’s daughter ‒ Asterion is another name for the Minotaur of Crete._  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(  
> **  
> 


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 10**   
__  
December 1347 – February 1348  
**_Granada_ **

Harry looked in satisfaction at the cauldron full of milky liquid. "You did something truly remarkable, Master Severus,” he said admiringly. “Surely this is among your best work?"

"I should think not," the potions master muttered. "There’s still room for improvement … the potion should be clear, not opaque, for one …"

"I thought that was because of the powdered bezoars?" Harry asked, puzzled. "Didn't you both tell me it was impossible to grind them further or risk losing all poison-banishing properties?"

"Yes, yes," Severus waved a dismissive hand in Harry's general direction and continued to glare at the potion. "But maybe another distillation, or a finer filter –"

" _No_ , Severus," Draco said quite firmly, and raised a hand to stem whatever Severus was going to say next. "We've filtered it from here to Doomsday. And distilled and boiled down and clarified and strained until there was nothing left _to_ strain. There _are_ no impurities left in the initial elixir, or in every liquid we've added."

"You don't know that!"

Draco huffed exasperatedly at the stubborn man. "What I _know_ is how it galls you to release a remedy that's less than absolutely perfect. So what if it’s not the Sovereign Specific we’d hoped for? It’ll still heal a plethora of illnesses, and we can deal with any side effects if and when they appear.”

He gripped Severus’ sinewy forearm just below a blister he’d gained during the last brewing and squeezed gently.

“I also knowthat I'm not even half as adept at Potions that you are. But in all these months we've been working together you’ve taught me that eventually one has to find a stopping point – a place where any further 'improvement' becomes mere fiddling. And trust me, we've reached that stage days ago."

"Please let it rest, Master Severus," Harry chimed in as well. "You've succeeded in brewing something you said was nigh on impossible. Maybe a universal remedy needs a god to create, and _that_ we are not." 

Severus scowled and turned his back toward them. He knew he could be rightfully proud of what he'd achieved, but not even the handsome compensation Draco and Harry had handed him in the form of a sizeable amount of gemstones and a Letter of Credit with the House of Piedro del Oro could make up for having to stop at 'almost, but not quite'.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

What did come, right after the Month of Fasting had started on the fourth day of December, was a Greek scholar with whom Severus, in his Abbas persona, used to exchange regular letters. He was also a member of a rich wizarding trading House, and went by the name of Seirios Mavros. Tall, handsome and boisterous, he routinely caused much chagrin to a young witch in his retinue called Hermione Symponia.

"Please forgive Archon Mavros," she said to Severus when it became obvious within a few days that despite their long-standing friendship via correspondence the two men mixed about as well as oil and water when being face to face. It wasn't the first time, even in the short time since their arrival, that she was rolling her eyes in exasperation. "He can be quite trying at times, I know, but his knowledge of magical and Muggle lore is really rather extraordinary."

"I'd extraordinarily like to kick him where it'd do the most good," Severus muttered, casting a baleful glance at the corner where Mavros sat with Harry. The two of them had instantly connected, and got along like the proverbial house on fire. Right now, Harry was showing the Montségur treasure to the man, explaining that he'd tried to charge the chalice with moonlight since Mabon at the end of September.

"It came to me when I saw the Harvest Moon right after Draco and Master Severus had finished the potion," Harry explained earnestly. "I don't know whether it's necessary, but surely it can't hurt?"

Mavros turned the earthenware cup this way and that in his hands, studying it intently. "One would think so," he said at last, choosing his words with care. "It already has strong inherent magic, and exposure to the rays of the moon can only enhance any healing powers it might have." He shook back his luxuriant, well-groomed black locks. "Have you prayed for help over it?"

Harry squirmed a bit, feeling unaccountably embarrassed in such suave company. "Yes. I've lit candles to the Archangel Raphael and St Luke the Physician, and tried invoking the help of Hecate, but …" 

"Good choices all, but it should really be a woman calling on the Tripartite Goddess," Seirios commented. "I knew I had a reason why I brought Hermione."

Overhearing this, the witch huffed and tossed her braid of thick brown hair over her shoulder, but gave him a wink. "You're saying that to all the girls, Seirios."

"Only to those who can cast a hex faster than I," he retorted with a barking laugh. "A piece of advice, lads – never argue with a clever witch; it'll make your marriage bed that much more welcoming!"

"We'll keep that in mind, Archon," Draco said with a smile for Harry across the room that made Severus scowl into his cup and caused both Greeks to raise an eyebrow.

Seirios rallied first, shoving his instantly aroused suspicions aside for the moment. "None of that 'Archon' nonsense from you," he said gruffly. "Aren't you related to the de Greys?"

"Distantly, yes – my maternal great-grandmother was born Flora de Grey, but on finding she was magical was sent to live with Pureblood relatives in Candia …" Draco's mouth dropped open as realisation dawned.

"The Mavros clan, yes." Seirios smirked. "The Pureblood bit is arguable, as both branches regularly swap children as needed, but that at least keeps the magic strong with new blood every now and then. In any case it makes us third cousins once removed, or some such rot; I care not which, exactly. Let's just say we're family, and leave it at that."

Draco looked slightly overwhelmed; he'd believed with the death of his cousins in battle that the Malfoys were yea-close to dying out. Finding family with magic, no matter how distant, was a boon he hadn't expected to come from this quest. "I am honoured … cousin," he said with a slight bow.

Seirios waved him off. "A matter for another night. Now, what do you want to do with this goblet, and the potion?"

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

As the days passed and Yule came closer, the five of them slowly devised a plan on how to proceed.

They bought a well-aged oak cask from a cooper, making sure that it was tight and sturdy and big enough to hold about two gallons' worth of the potion, that being the amount they could produce in the time left. As they could not risk contamination through the wood, it was Hermione who conceived the idea of using a glass bottle. So a glass blower was commissioned to produce the biggest one he could, and again it was the Greek witch who carefully Charmed it to match the cask in size and shape.

"So that's sorted," Seirios said once they'd purified the bottle with salt to make it magically neutral and fitted it into the cask. "I like it – big enough to hold a sizeable quantity of this remedy, and yet small enough to be transported safely and comfortably."

"We'll be cutting it close with producing two gallons of the potion, though," Draco sighed. "Severus says we're almost out of salamander blood and dittany, and there's no new shipment coming into Málaga until spring."

"I'll send word to my factor in Gibraltar; he should be able to get what we need from Ceuta, if necessary," Seirios said. "It's a two-week ride either way in winter, though – have you someone capable and trustworthy to go?"

"I usually do the buying," Harry started, but Severus cut him right off.

" _You_ need to be here and deal with the chalice," he said sharply. "It's your family legacy, after all. Send some of your men; let them be useful for once instead of loitering around in the countryside. Or are they that dunderheaded that they can't buy two simple things?"

Both Harry and Draco bristled at that. The four men they'd brought from home maybe were not intellectual giants like Severus or the newest addition to their group, the girl Hermione, but they were hardly stupid. Most of all, though, they could be trusted.

"We can send Ronald, and maybe Gregory," Harry said after a quick conference with Draco. "He's accompanied me often enough this summer to know his way around a harbour, and they are used to watching each other's backs. And we'd still have Seamus and Vincent here to run errands or do labour as needed."

"That's taken care of, then," Mavros said. "How is the moon-charging going?"

"The chalice has been exposed to the full moon several times now – at first by Sir Harold alone, and once now with me invoking Hecate's blessing," Hermione reported. "We'll repeat that right after the New Year, and again at the end of January. There'll be a Blue Moon then; it should at least double the potency."

"How do you know about the Blue Moon?" Draco wondered. "Isn't that a very rare phenomenon?"

"Hence the extra strength," she shrugged. "A friend of mine who's quite knowledgeable about lunar phases told me."

"How reliable is this person, though?" Severus asked skeptically. He rarely trusted anyone he didn't know.

Seirios smirked. "Remus is a lycanthrope; I defy anyone but another of his kind to know more about full moons than he."

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, Draco was the first to find his voice. "You … you're _friends_ with a _werewolf_?!? But … but they're monsters!"

"Actually, they only have a furry problem once every twenty-nine days, cousin," Mavros said nonchalantly, but with a hint of warning shading his voice. "At all other times, they're as human as you or I. And with or without lycanthropy, Remus is an absolute asset to me and mine; you'd do well to remember that, should you ever meet him."

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

Nightfall couldn’t come soon enough for Draco and Harry. Ever since Ramadan had started, they had had to forego all food and drink during the whole day. Severus kept the Month of Fasting out of deference to his neighbours and expected his houseguests to do the same. So the group got to meeting after sundown to sit around a brazier in the house's central room, to share the evening meal along with information on the day’s activities.

As had become habit very quickly, Seirios opened the discussion. "As we've seen earlier, we've got a lot sorted already. Now, Harold – what are your thoughts on the cup itself?"

Harry drew a deep breath. He hadn't been able to do much with the brewing of the potion, but this was an area where his family legacy might be helpful.

"Well, I've been thinking about this for some time," he began, between sips of almond milk.

"Merlin help us all, we're doomed," Draco quipped, and had a handful of nuts thrown at his head for it. "Ow!"

"Your own fault," Harry grinned, expertly shelling a few pistachios and popping the kernels into his mouth. "Behave, or suffer the consequences!" The look he gave his friend and lover spoke volumes, and as he'd known he would, Draco subsided with a playful pout.

Unnoticed by both, Seirios exchanged a look of his own with Severus, who told him with a surreptitious gesture they'd talk about it later. The two men hadn't yet completely overcome their antagonism, but the shared research was slowly helping them regain the common ground they'd first discovered in their correspondence – much to the relief of their younger housemates.

"As I was saying," Harry meanwhile picked up his thread again, "I've given the matter some thought. Item – we know from the prophecy that we need to 'anoint the land' with the potion, which I assume means spilling it somewhere?"

"There's a secret well at Ynis Afallach that is supposedly connected with all waters in Albion, or so legend has it," Hermione mused. "I read about it in Malmesbury’s _Historia Anglorum_."

"Right. So we pour the potion into the chalice, and from there into this well."

" _If_ it exists, you mean," Severus muttered. He'd enjoyed the challenge creating the remedy had posed him, but he was deeply suspicious of legends, prophecies and the like nonetheless.  


"We have to have faith _somewhere_ , Severus," Draco said quietly. "Or we might just as well have stayed at home and never started this quest."

The Potions master pursed his lips, clearly wanting to argue, but eventually gave a reluctant nod. "Very well. What next?"

Harry resumed his summary. "Item – the anointing is to be done with something made by 'master's craft' – your potion," he indicated Severus, "by 'messenger's skill'," here he paused to smile at the brown-eyed witch, "if my admittedly scanty knowledge of Greek doesn't mislead me, that's the meaning of your name?"

Hermione's eyes grew very wide. "It does, but – I've hardly done anything! What is this skill I'm supposed to have that could help?"

"I'll come to that in a minute," Harold told her, turning to Seirios Mavros. "And lastly, 'star's guidance' would be you … seeing as you're named after a star."

" _Canis maior_ , the Dog Star," he confirmed. "Brightest in the firmament: Said to weaken men, and arouse women." His grey eyes twinkled mischievously, and Hermione snorted.

"You wish," she muttered while the others laughed.

"Going on," Harry said once they'd sobered, "I believe that we're on the right track with using the moon's magic. I'll put the chalice into a silver bowl with spring water come the Blue Moon, which should help even more. Then we can soak it in the potion; the cup is made of clay, and thus should absorb most, if not all of its healing properties. Which in turn will strengthen the potion's effects even more once we spill it into the well."

"That's all fair and well, but how can you preserve the charge until we reach Glastonbury?" Draco asked. "It'll take us weeks to get there, and that doesn't take into account that we'll have to hide it from Muggles, thieves and whatnot."

Harry smiled. "That is what I've been thinking about. My idea is this – what if we hide the cup inside another? One made out of white clay from Greece that also purifies what's held in it?"

The other four pondered this for a while, then Severus fixed Harry with a sharp gaze. "Suppose it works – how do you propose to do that?"

"They don't call my branch of the Peverels 'potters' for nothing," Harry replied. "I may be King Edward's soldier right now, but when I can no longer serve him, my life's work will be to continue Grandfather Lionel's efforts."

He briefly outlined how he planned to make a two-part mold of the cup's shape in wet sand, enlarge it gently with magic – a nod at Hermione – and then seal the halves with resin, like the container they'd found it in had been. "If we leave a bit of room, we can even fill it with cloth soaked in the potion, both for padding as well as added strength."

"That … that's actually quite ingenious," Severus murmured at last. "I must admit, Harold, I had not thought you capable of this."

"My skills may not lie in a laboratory, Master Severus, but I hope I'm not a complete dunderhead elsewhere." Harry grinned, then sobered. "The only thing I haven't figured out yet is how to make sure we don't accidentally break the cup."

"We've carried it safely from Montségur to here," Draco said. "Why shouldn't we do the same on the way back?" 

"We took our own sweet time to get here – something we won't be able to come spring, as we'll be on a deadline," Harry explained. "Further, we never took it on board a ship before, _and_ we didn't have to sail _north_ so early in the year. It'll likely take longer, and there might even be gales."

"I hadn't thought of that," Draco admitted. "What _is_ our schedule, anyway?"

"To fulfill the prophecy, we _have_ to be at Glastonbury Tor on the eve of Beltane," Harry said. "Very few ships will sail during Holy Week, so … we should hope to leave La Rochelle no later than right after that, at the very beginning of April next year. And that'll be cutting it fine even then."

"Which means you'll have to be on your way shortly after Imbolc, in February." Severus rubbed his beard, careful not to betray the sudden elation he felt. "Not an easy thing to do – there'll still be snow on the heights." He just raised an eyebrow at their incredulous expressions. "They don't call the mountains surrounding this city the Sierra Nevada for nothing, you know."

"Fantastic," Harry grumbled. "I so love bivouacking in winter." Draco groaned theatrically, and Severus was hard pressed to hide his smirk. A part of him commiserated, but was quickly drowned out by the realisation that, no matter how congenial his present company, he'd _finally_ have his house back to himself!

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

“What’s going on with those boys, Abbas?” Seirios demanded to know of Severus once everybody else had retired for the night. “Am I seeing things that don’t exist, or _are_ they making cow eyes at each other?”

“If it were only that,” Severus grimaced, pouring a liberal amount of wine for both of them. For this discussion, they needed the fortification. “It’s gone a lot further since … oh, September, I’d say.” 

Seirios saluted him with his goblet in thanks and took a mouthful. “How far are we talking about?”

Severus quirked a sardonic eyebrow at him. “Without ever having been alone in a room with them at night, my guess is, as far as two healthy young men can go with each other.” 

“Damn.”

“Indeed.” Severus leaned back in his chair. “To be frank, I generally don’t care who beds whom as long as both partners are willing. And make no mistake, they _are_ willing ‒ nauseatingly so,” he drawled. “But I shouldn’t care to see them ostracised or punished for what should be a personal matter.”

“Punished? Why? And how?”

Severus snorted. “Albion isn’t Greece,” he said. “For one, they are wizards. It isn’t just in Albion that our kind is being regarded with suspicion and fear; it’s happening everywhere. And if the Church has her way, it’s going to get even worse. We even might have to go into hiding eventually … whether temporarily or permanently, is anyone’s guess.”

"Can’t say that I disagree. But that’s not the point you were going to make, right?”

“No. What needs to be addressed is that this quest of theirs, even though I understand it was pretty much a clandestine affair with very few people in the know, has brought them to the attention of some very important people.”

Seirios looked as if he'd bitten into a lemon. “Important enough to take issue with two young men who have formed … let’s call it a Special Friendship, shall we … and get shirty about it in one way or another?”

The Potions master shrugged. “They’re both only sons. Draco even is the Malfoy Heir since his cousins fell in battle. They’re bright enough, and will be prominent enough when they go back, to have great futures ahead of them, whether among wizards _or_ Muggles. How that will play out when it becomes apparent they’re involved with each other, I do not care to speculate.”

“They _could_ try to hide ‒”

“Oh, please,” Severus interrupted him. “You’ve known them how long ‒ two weeks? And you’ve noticed. I’ll grant you that they probably feel safe here and don’t see the need for more discretion, but can you honestly say they won’t give themselves away sooner rather than later?” 

Seirios couldn’t, so elected to say nothing at all for a long time, slowly finishing his wine. He Summoned the flagon and refilled his goblet, then started to pace.

“The Church has persecuted people as heretics for less,” he muttered at last, thinking out loud.

“And is beginning to do so just on the suspicion of practising sorcery,” Severus said impassively. “Which means they'll already have lost on two counts in the public's eyes. I couldn’t speculate on what their families might do or say should it become known which way they’re inclined.”

“It wouldn’t be pretty,” Seirios predicted gloomily. “Damn again.” He stopped abruptly at a window, staring out into the night. “We ought to do something …”

“Should we?”

Seirios glared at Severus. “Yes, we damn well should!” He gulped down the rest of his wine, then fell back heavily into his own chair. “Look, they could be humping each other in front of the high altar in Canterbury Cathedral, even invite a gargoyle or two to join them, for all I care. But dammit, I’ve come to _like_ those boys, and I don’t want to see them burn at the stake over this nonsense!”

The black eyes seemed even more inscrutable than usual. “Two things.” He lifted one finger. “First, I don’t think they’d thank you for calling them ‘boys’ ‒ nor should you, really. They’re old enough to know what they’re doing, and to consider the consequences of their actions.”

“They’re in love ‒ or believe they are. Hell, even if they’re only in lust, when has that ever been conducive to rational thinking?” Seirios snorted.

“Quite.” The reply was dry as dust. 

The two men regarded each other across the room for several moments, their differences forgotten over their concern for Harry and Draco before Seirios broke the silence by clearing his throat. “You said there were two things; what’s the second?”

A faint smile quirked Severus’ lips as he tipped his goblet towards Seirios in acknowledgement. “What do you plan to do about the situation? Assuming you _have_ a plan, that is?” 

The look from the grey eyes turned sly. “I haven’t _quite_ worked out all the details yet, but taking Harry’s idea of encasing the chalice in a second layer …”

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

“What do you mean, you want to put a metal shell around the cup?” Harry wondered when Seirios made the proposal to him two days later. “Haven’t we decided to use clay because of its inherent healing and protective properties?”

“Yes, but metal can help even there. We can make this shell of silver and gold, etch some ornaments onto it to make it look like altar plate ‒ if you _are_ searched for any reason, you can always claim you’ve had it blessed at Santiago de Compostela, or maybe Rome, and are planning to gift it to your priest or abbey or whatever at home.” Seirios grinned. “You wouldn’t _believe_ how often that works on brigands. Apparently it’s quite allright to rob, maim or even kill people for money and riches, but when that same act can get you excommunicated, it’s suddenly not.”

“That makes no sense,” Draco complained. “If you kill the people you rob, your soul is damned anyway, so what difference does it make if it’s for murder or stealing altar plate, blessed or not?”

“Who ever said that brigands and robbers have to be smart?” 

Draco choked on a laugh despite himself, but his expression soon turned pensive.

“You know, it’s actually not a bad idea,” he told Harry. “A metal outer casing would surely prevent breakage, especially if we add more potion-soaked cloth … gold has associations with health, silver is an excellent conductor for things that flow, _and_ it’s magically neutral.”

“We can also hide some protective runes in the decoration,” Hermione offered. “Maybe that is where my skill comes in; I’ve studied both Celtic and Nordic runes, and I’m not bad at designing patterns.”

“Best illuminator I’ve seen in a long time,” Seirios nodded. “With brush and needle both.”

“There you go then,” Draco said cheerfully, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulder. “Master’s craft, star’s guidance, messenger’s skill, all in one neat package. Or gold goblet casing, as the case may be. Sounds just about perfect, no?”

“Sounds too good to be true, if you ask me,” Harry muttered. He had to admit it all made sense, from a practical as well as a magical standpoint, but something didn’t quite feel right to him. However, with four people whose opinion he'd learned to value telling him it was the right thing to do, and with time rapidly running out, he let himself be persuaded to go ahead with it.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

The second, even bigger casing needed to be forged, not fired. Seirios knew enough to melt and shape metal ‒ it was his expertise in metallurgy which had first led to his correspondence with Abbas al-Bedali ‒ but where to find the facilities?

Surprisingly, it was Vincent who provided the solution. “Alonso has a forge,” he said in his slow way. “He uses it to repair his plough, and mend cauldrons and pots and suchlike.” He grinned. “If Master Abbas will make him some fertilizer, and Sir Draco will add some coin, I’ve no doubt he’ll let us use it.”

So they went to the farm where Harry’s and Draco’s escort were lodging, and made the deal with the farmer. As Alonso insisted on being present at the forging, Seirios applied a mild Memory Charm afterwards, changing what he’d seen forged, and that was that. 

Harry and Draco were off to yet another _hammam_ visit when Seirios and Severus came into the workroom where Hermione was etching vines and arabesques on the inside of the shell.

“Look, I’ve incorporated runes here and here,” she said, pointing out the faint marks hidden among leaves and stamens. “Protection, change, integrity, health, cleansing … well, pretty much everything that seemed appropriate.”

“Well done,” Severus said, inspecting her work. The runes were so tiny, one had to _know_ they were there to begin with, and even then look very, very closely. “What will you do on the outside?”

“I thought I’d inscribe the names of the Evangelists and some saints, just deep enough to have the silver shine through,” she suggested. “It should look nice, and will appear sufficiently devout.”

“Call us when you’re finished,” Seirios said and went out into the garden, his host at his heels, and cast a privacy spell as soon as they reached the far corner.

“Have you decided what to do, then?” Severus asked.

“Yes. There’s something in my family grimoire that’ll do. I’ll botch up the sealing just a bit, and will graciously volunteer my services to smooth it out when everybody’s asleep. That’s when I’ll add the spell.”

“What will it do?”

“Nothing too bad ‒ it _was_ originally designed as a curse, but over the generations certain modifications have been added that I can use to turn it into a mere compulsion.” He spread his arms at the look of distaste Severus couldn’t quite hide. “Look, I never claimed all my family were model citizens,” he said. “You don’t amass the kind of fortune we have by being nice to everybody.”

Severus grimaced. “I guess not. What kind of compulsion, though?” Even though they were in agreement to separate Harry and Draco for their own good, there were ways to go about it … and there were _ways_. And some of them, Severus wasn’t willing to tread.

Seirios wearily rubbed his forehead. “We’ll tell them that they both need to hold the chalice during the ritual at Glastonbury. As soon as they’re done, the compulsion will take hold and … well, the best I can describe it is, it’ll make them drift apart. They won’t be enemies, exactly, but they’ll be indifferent at the very least. Certainly no longer lovers. What they do with their lives after that will be up to them.”

“That … doesn’t sound too bad,” Severus said slowly, watching Seirios whose expression seemed rather glum. “Why do I have a feeling that that’s not all the compulsion will do?”

“Because you’re too damn smart.” Seirios went for the ever-present flagon of wine, poured himself a glass and swallowed the content almost without pause. “The bad thing is, the compulsion is still going to be damn strong. And eternal.”  
_  
“What?”_

“Yes,” Seirios laughed bitterly. “What I’m going to cast on this priceless artefact ‒ which, by the way, is a thing so pure and good it ought to shine like the sun, the moon and all the stars combined, and should _never_ be desecrated like that ‒ will make sure that once Harry and Draco have used it to save Albion, no Peverel will _ever_ be friends with a Malfoy again. Not them, not their children, not a hundred generations from now.”

Severus blanched. “You're planning to cast _Hostes in Aeternum_ ,” he whispered. “I thought that curse was just a myth!”

“Now you know it isn’t. Welcome to the Mavros legacy.” With a muffled oath, Seirios savagely threw his goblet against the garden wall, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. “I hate doing that to those boys. They deserve better.”

Severus didn’t disagree. “But you’ll do it anyway.”

Shoulders slumped as if he’d suddenly aged a decade or more, Seirios trudged towards his room. “Of course. Someone has to keep an eye on the greater good; might as well be me.”

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

In her work room, Hermione sat with her hand pressed firmly against her mouth, eyes screwed tightly shut in anguish. She couldn’t believe what she’d just overheard, thanks to Seirios’ sloppy spellcasting. The man was a gifted wizard, but sometimes when he was upset, he tended to overlook small loopholes. Or, in this case, the ventilation shaft set high up near the ceiling. Of course, it was also partially obscured by a decorative stone grille, painted to match the outside wall …

No matter how, she’d overheard _the_ most atrocious plan. How Seirios could even _think_ about putting the _Hostes in Aeternum_ spell on someone, she couldn’t fathom. And on Harry and Draco, no less! That spell in its original form was magic bordering on evil – so dark it might as well be called black!

Hermione had early on noticed the closeness between both young men. How could she not, when it was so obvious in every smile, word or gesture they shared? And while a part of her mourned the loss their love meant to womankind, another part had to acknowledge the _rightness_ of it and couldn’t but rejoice. 

She’d also felt an instant kinship with them when they met ‒ hardly surprising, as they were of a similar age to herself, some twenty years younger than Severus and Seirios. But it was more than that ‒ she could talk Potions and literature with Draco, History and craftsmanship with Harry, they’d had the most interesting discussions on magical Blood issues with the three of them embodying all aspects … she _couldn’t_ let that happen! 

After all, there was a reason that in her native Candia she’d been given the name of Symponia … which meant Compassion. 

Hermione forced herself to continue working, but her mind was busy plotting ways and means. If she added a rune here, another there ‒ for rebirth, integrity, love, unity … yes, that might work! And while she wouldn’t be able to lift the compulsion spell completely once it was cast, she could at least try to mitigate the effect on children, and maybe set some kind of time limit on the whole. 

So she researched ways in which she could intervene. In addition to the runes, she needed something more, a symbol of something finite. She finally found what she’d been looking for when she read a compilation of texts by Arethas of Caesarea ‒ fittingly, in a treatise on the Apocalypse. Taking careful notes, she now was all set for the final stage of her plan. 

Hermione had her chance on Imbolc, a few days after the chalice’s last charging under the Blue Moon. It was equally fortuitous that the Church now called it St Brigid’s Day; Hermione wasn’t particularly versed in Roman hagiology, but knew that both the Goddess most revered on Imbolc and her namesake saint represented the light half of the year, and the power that would bring people from the dark season of winter into spring.

As she stealthily snuck out with the now doubly-disguised chalice to a hidden corner of the house, her mind and heart were filled with prayer and intent as she began to work, adding near-invisible names to those of the Evangelists, saints Peter and Paul as well as St Mungo, for the latter’s connection with healing and wizarding Britain before casting her own spell on top of Seirios'. There was some conflict as his magic tried to resist hers, but her wand and determination never wavered, and eventually her modification took. All done, she whispered a final Sealing Spell and returned the artefact to Harry’s luggage. 

Back in her room, her thoughts whirled around what she’d done. Sacrificing her friends’ relationship might be necessary and unavoidable, and she'd mourn the loss of their happiness for a very long time. But by weaving certain conditions into the Mavros’ spell, she had added one thing that Seirios had disregarded: instead of committing a wrong done for some nebulous ‘Greater Good’, she’d altered it into a better omen for the future.

She had added hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**  
> 
> 
> ****  
> __  
> **A/N:**  
>  _Archon is Greek for “Lord, leader”_  
>  _Seirios is the Greek form of … well, you really should have guessed! *winks, grins*_  
>  _Ceuta is a Spanish exclave in Morocco, right opposite Gibraltar. It’s the shortest distance between continental Europe and Africa (the Strait of Gibraltar is only 14km/8mi. wide at its narrowest point), and separates the Mediterranean Sea from the Atlantic Ocean. At the time, it also was under Muslim rule._  
>  _A Blue Moon is a phenomenon that has two full moons in one month. Usually happens in January or March, because a lunar cycle is 29.5 days long and February only has 28 days. It’s rather rare, hence the saying “once in a blue moon”._  
>  _(William of) Malmesbury (c. 1095 or '96 – c. 1143) was the foremost English historian of the 12th century. He really wrote a “Historia Anglorum” (History of the English), but the legend of the well is different._  
>  _Imbolc is a festival marking the beginning of spring, halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. Celebrated usually on February 1._  
>  _Information on the magical properties of metals comes fromMagic, Spells and Potions _  
> _"Hostes in Aeternum" is Latin for “enemies forever/in eternity”._  
>  _A hagiology is a collection of biographies or narratives of the lives of saints._  
>  _Arethas of Caesarea was real; he was Archbishop of Caesarea, is considered one of the most scholarly theologians of the Greek Orthodox Church, and lived in the 10th century._
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **  
> )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(  
> 


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 11**   
_1 May, 2014_   
**_The Potters' House, Godric's Hollow_ **

"Mum, Mum, come quick! Al's thrown stuff at Dad and Mr Malfoy!"

James' voice was shrill in the near-deserted garden, and brought Ginny, the remaining Weasleys as well as Mrs Malfoy and her sister rushing towards the spot where Harry and Draco were still caught under the shimmering dome of light. Only now the gold and silver streaks flashing across the surface had sped up, and it seemed as if it was about to collapse.

"Well, _something's_ happening," Bill murmured, already drawing his wand to ascertain what was going on. "About time, too." The two men had been standing in the same position for several hours now.

Ginny, Hermione and Narcissa converged on the children. Thankfully, the youngest ones had been put to bed earlier in the attic playroom, distracted by the prospect of an impromptu slumber party and Arthur armed with a copy of _Arabian Nights_. James and the older children stood to one side, but the trio of Albus, Scorpius and Rose were huddled together near where the snacks table had been left. It was now a complete shambles.

"Mummy, I didn't throw anything," Al sobbed as he threw himself into Ginny's arms. "Jamie's making it up!"

"Am not," her eldest protested, prudently staying out of reach of potential maternal wrath. "I saw you – you were getting all upset, and then the table and everything went _KABOOM!_ " 

"Accidental magic, most likely," Hermione murmured, soothing Rose whose face was streaked with tears as well. Only Scorpius seemed slightly better off than his friends, but he, too, clung to his grandmother's waist, pale and shaken.

"Al really didn't, Mrs. Potter," he said.

"I know, Scorpius," Ginny sighed. "Al was most likely upset over your dads, weren't you, love?"

Albus nodded, sniffling. Now that his mother was holding him and he could see his outburst hadn't harmed anyone, he was beginning to quiet down. 

Ginny Conjured a handkerchief and gave it to her son. "Blow." He did. 

"W'were jus' talkin', and thinkin' 'bout what Daddy an' Scorp's Dad w're thinking," he hiccupped, his speech more childish than usual due to his agitation. "Me 'n' Scorp 'n' Rose, I mean. Then Lou said he betted that Dad was all frozen, or even peterfied, and I said he's not, and Molly said he's too, an', an' then …"

"Kaboom," James repeated sagely. "It was _awesome_!"  
 _  
“James!”_

Not even his older brother's badly-hidden envy was enough to calm Albus down. Instead, he began to cry again.

"Mummy, I didn' mean to hurt Daddy," he wailed.

"Hush, Al, I'm sure you didn't," Hermione hugged the frantic little boy along with her own daughter. "It was just your magic acting up – remember last Christmas when you levitated Aunt Luna's Kneazle into her Dirigible Plum tree because he didn't want to play anymore? This was similar, only more so." 

"Y-yeah," Al mumbled, a hint of a smile peeking through his tears. "Was fun."

"For you, maybe," George muttered under his breath. "The Kneazle, I'm not so sure about."

Despite the situation, Ginny couldn't suppress a tiny giggle at her brother's remark. That, more than anything else, seemed to settle Albus and his friends enough that they were willing to follow Andromeda into the house. The promise of hot chocolate and a bedtime story read by Arthur "just for you" did the rest, and soon the three women were left alone with Bill who was still carefully casting a series of Detection spells at the madly coruscating dome.

"Well, there's definitely been a change." Hermione warily eyed the pyrotechnical effects on the dome’s surface. "Any idea yet what's caused it, Bill?"

"Only that something hit it at high speed and is slowly breaking down the shield’s integrity," he said. 

"Is it dangerous for my son and Harry?" Narcissa asked in the carefully-controlled voice they'd all learned in the last few hours hid her deep fear.

Bill waggled his head. "I don't think so, but it'd help if I knew _what_ exactly Al's outburst propelled this way." He flicked his wand, starting a new diagnostic. "Do me a favour, Gin, and look whether you can find something likely."

"Right."

Hermione stayed with her brother-in-law to take notes, and Ginny slowly made her way across the lawn to what had once been a nicely-appointed buffet table.

" _Lumos_ ," Narcissa murmured at her side, directing her wandlight towards the ground. "Judging by the distribution of the debris, the children were standing here … most likely facing Draco and Harry." Indeed, there was a definite wedge shape to the detritus, with Al's spot at the centre of its base. 

"I didn't realise you knew so much about explosive directions," Ginny said, mentally cataloguing what she could identify. _*Bowl, bowl, barbecued ribs, platter, ketchup bottle, oh Merlin, Mum's dessert dishes …*_

"If most of the furniture in your house has once been used as target practice for Unforgiveables, you learn," Mrs. Malfoy replied, her smooth face suspiciously bland.

"Er, yes, I guess so," Ginny stammered, embarrassed. It was far too easy to forget that even the Malfoys hadn't come unscathed through the War; she really should get out of the habit. Ginny was still trying to formulate an answer that wouldn't stick her foot even deeper into her mouth when she stubbed her toe against something smooth and hard and nearly slipped. "Ow!"

"You okay there, Gin?" Bill called over.

"Yeah, I just stepped on something," she called back. "Let me see …" Bending over, she needed a few seconds to root around in the dew-dampened grass to find a misshapen silver object. Both she and Narcissa directed their _lumos_ 'ed wandtips towards it, and Ginny gasped. 

"It's my salt cellar – the silver one Aunt Muriel gave us as a wedding gift!" 

There was an instant of stunned silence, then Hermione cast a contained _Lumos Maxima_ on the ground right at the perimeter of the shield. "There," she pointed to a handful of white mush after a few sweeps. "Looks like a blob of salt to me."

"Easily verified," Bill grunted, stuck his pinky finger into the mush and licked. At Hermione's scandalised look, he grinned fleetingly. "Sometimes, easiest is best, sister dearest. Certainly quickest."

"Just terribly unsanitary," Hermione grumbled. "Not to mention unscientific. Well?"

"Well what?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Bill Weasley, you know exactly what I mean! Is that salt, or not?"

"Yep," he said laconically. "And that explains why the dome shield is disintegrating."

"It does? How?" 

"Old magic, Mrs. Weasley," Narcissa said. She sighed. "We should really have thought to try it ourselves; after all, it's hardly a secret. But I suppose we were all too discombobulated to think straight."

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Mrs Malfoy. You had every reason to be rattled ‒ we all were,” Bill said. 

"Salt has long been used for purification," Ginny explained at Hermione’s questioning look. "It cleanses, draws away both good and bad energies, will protect you against psychic attacks …"

"That it was kept in a silver container probably helped, too," Narcissa murmured. "Silver purifies as well."

Hermione's head was swiveling back and forth between the two women, clearly torn between rampant curiosity to learn more, and chagrined that she hadn't known any of this already. Just when she opened her mouth to ask indignantly why none of this was being taught at Hogwarts, though, Bill forestalled her.

"Most importantly, salt _thrown_ will serve to clear the aura of someone or something of leftover psychic energy," he said. "I'd say Al's little episode qualifies."

Ginny swallowed hard. That it could be this easy … she didn't want to get her hopes up, but it was hard not to; not when they'd run into one dead end after the other so far. "What … what does that mean for Harry and Draco, though?"

"Looks as if salt's doing the trick just fine," Bill answered, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Get me some more – the plain stuff from your kitchen will do, but if you have rock salt or sea salt, that'd be even better – and I'll try casting a circle around them. Maybe even sprinkle a bit on top of 'em, we'll see how it goes."

"You mustn't force it, Mr Weasley," Narcissa warned.

"I know, Ma'am; I'll be careful. Try a few safe things, see what happens, and monitor the lot. If all goes well, we'll have these two oversized garden gnomes out of there within the hour – two tops, or I'll miss my guess."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**
> 
> **_  
> A/N:_ ** Information about the use of salt in magic comes from the Magic, Spells and Potions website. ****
> 
> **  
> )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 12**   
__  
30 April – 1 May, 1348  
**_Ynis Afallach_ **

"It'll be all over tomorrow," Harry said once they'd been shown to their room at the King's Head in Wells. The inn was thoroughly Muggle, but even Draco didn't bat an eye over it anymore, having got used to not doing much magic over the past year. 

"Can't say I'll be sad about it," Draco replied, bending to look out the window onto the busy street below. "It's about time we're back in civilisation."

Harry raised an amused eyebrow. "You don't think Granada was civilized? I dare you to say that to Master Severus' face."

"I didn't mean _him_ , of course," Draco waved airily. " _His_ house was just fine, even without a house-elf. Just all the other dreary places you dragged me to over the last year."

"Dreary? Like Montségur?" The ancient castle hadn't been the most comfortable place they'd stayed at, but the wonder of finding the chalice made up for a lot. "Or Malik's _hammam_? Severus' garden at midnight? The banks where the Darro and Beiro flow together? Or maybe the Château Vieux in Bayonne?" 

Draco's pale cheeks coloured. "I suppose those weren't too bad," he murmured, his mind darting back to that last location. After their grueling journey from Granada through the Kingdom of Castile in the depth of winter, reaching English soil in Aquitaine at last around Eastertide had been a relief. By contrast, taking a too-short break from the vagaries of two months of hard riding and inclement weather in the castle via a writ issued by Prince Edward had been pure luxury. 

"I just wish we could have stayed there longer."

Harry went over and pulled him into a light embrace. "I'll take you back there one day," he said huskily, brushing a soft kiss against the corner of Draco's mouth. "And any other place you want to go."

"How can you, if the King is still at war, and you're still serving in his army? _My_ trade is flexible, but yours is not."

"I won't be a soldier forever," Harry said. "One more campaign, and I'll be done – it was never supposed to be my life's work." He grinned fleetingly. "Maybe Grandfather Lionel will have me in his business; just think, we could even be partners – I could make and buy pottery, you'd trade it, and together we can travel the world!"

"I suppose it _would_ be nice to visit Seirios and Hermione in Candia; we never finished that discussion on Sophocles' plays," Draco mused, momentarily caught up in the image Harry was painting. He frowned when Harry began to snicker. "What?"

Harry nuzzled into the blond hair. "If you want to talk ancient literature with Hermione, you'll have to go back to Granada."

"I don't understand …"

Now Harry was definitely smirking. "Let's just say that she's developed more than an intellectual interest in Potions master and respected scholar Abbas al-Bedali … someone who can give her at least indirect access to the libraries at Granada's _madrassa_ and the university the Emir has started to build."

Draco gaped in astonishment. "Really?"

"Really. It was rather obvious when you knew what to look for. Not that Severus has any idea yet that she's after him, mind."

"Poor man won't stand a chance," Draco predicted now that he could wrap his mind around the idea. He briefly looked away, then turned back towards Harry in a characteristic quicksilver change of mood. Inching closer to the firm chest, he threaded his fingers through the messy black hair. "Tell me," he whispered playfully against Harry's slightly parted lips, "why are we talking about their as-yet-hypothetical love life when we haven't yet taken care of our own? There's a perfectly good bed going to waste …"

Harry's smile deepened and he flicked the tip of his tongue against that tantalizing mouth. "We have a love life?"

Draco's expression turned serious as his grey eyes slowly lost their mischievous sparkle. "We're alive and we love," he said slowly, speaking the words for the first time. Harry stiffened in his arms, emerald gaze locking with silver. When he showed no further reaction, Draco began to fidget in sudden uncertainty.

"Don't we?" he asked in a small voice. 

That seemed to free Harry from his momentary paralysis. "Yes, we do." He tightened his arms around the other man and kissed him. "I've known for quite a while that I love you; I just wasn't sure whether you felt the same."

Relief washed over the pale face. "Of course I do."

Harry's hands went to the fastenings of Draco's tunic and began to undo them. "How long?" he whispered between kisses.

"I don't remember." Draco shivered as he reciprocated. "A long time."

As soon as their clothes were discarded, Harry gently pushed Draco towards the bed.

"Maybe even … forever?"

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

They set out on foot after Sext the next day, cask and chalice tucked securely into one unobtrusive pack. Both Seirios and Severus had admonished them to fast on Beltane, to prepare them for the ritual they had to perform. Similarly, they were not to use magic if at all possible.

"Good thing the weather's nice," Harry commented after an hour's walk they'd spent mostly silent, halfway to the Tor. "I wouldn't want to be sky-clad in the rain."

"Merlin, no," Draco shuddered. "Although I still wish it were warmer." It had been raining for several days, and the air was damp and misty even though it was past noon already.

"We're not in Granada anymore," Harry replied reasonably, garnering himself a disgusted look. 

"Can you be any more obvious?"

"Yes, but I don't want to fight with you. Not today," Harry confessed softly.

"Then shut up, you mad mustachioed purple-huedflobberworm," Draco snarled half-heartedly. "I'm jittery enough as it is."

" _What_ did you just call me?" Harry spluttered.

"You heard me."

"If I'm a mad flobberworm, you're a canker blossom," Harry retorted, trying not to laugh.

"Don't forget mustachioed and purple." Draco sniffed. "Now walk!"

"Yes, Sir Draco. Right away, Sir Draco. At your service, Sir Draco," Harry muttered, but walked.

Eventually they reached the plain surrounding Glastonbury Tor. The hill with its lone tower on top rose majestically out of the mist, and seemed to call them both in some undefinable fashion. Having been instructed well during their debriefing by Headmaster Prewett as well as Sir John de Grey, they turned off the main path towards a grove of trees partially-hidden by Muggle-Repelling Charms.

With all of his senses alert, Draco soon deduced why magic was so heavy in the air. "It's the trees," he told Harry. "Look – all the woods you need for a Beltane fire." Indeed, it was an unusual configuration of rowan, birch, ash, alder, willow, hawthorn, oak, holly, and hazel.  


"They don't normally grow all in one place, do they?" Harry asked. He'd never been particularly interested in Herbology, so wouldn't know.  


"Not usually, no."  


"It is the magic of Ynis Afallach at work," an unfamiliar voice said. Both men stiffened and whirled around, only to be confronted by a tall, sandy-haired stranger dressed in robes of green and brown. He was holding an even taller staff. "To those who come here pure of heart and asking nothing for themselves, these trees stand for wisdom, protection, strength, defence, healing, prophecy, knowledge, rebirth and success," he said, pointing them out in reverse order to Draco's list.  


"Are you among their number, or do you seek gain for yourselves?"  


"We've come to give protection to the land, if we can," Harry replied slowly. "A great evil has been prophesied, and we hope to prevent it by the gift we plan to offer the land." He gestured towards their pack.  


The man let his sharp gaze linger on the misshapen bundle, then made a sweeping motion with his staff. The bindings melted away into nothingness, and both cask and chalice were revealed.  


"There is powerful magic in your offering," he said. "And yet I can't detect any malice. Very well; follow me." He turned, and seemed to become one with the trees.  


Draco and Harry gaped when their treasures floated after the stranger seemingly of their own accord, as if under a Levitation spell. Quickly, they scrambled to do as they'd been bid.  


"Who are you?" Draco blurted after a while, unable to hold his curiosity in any longer.  


It took several heartbeats until the man answered. "I am the Guardian of the Grove," he said. "Tonight I stand for the Hunter, the Green Man of the forest. Tonight, I am Cernunnos." He took about a dozen steps more before he briefly looked back at them over his shoulder. A hint of laughter entered his voice for a fleeting moment. "Tomorrow, you can call me Neville. Now be silent, and enter Avalon."  


The ascent to the Tor was terraced, and seemed strangely convoluted, almost like a labyrinth. It _looked_ as if they were walking straight ahead, but it _felt_ as if they were following a maze, the boundaries and pathways invisible except to someone gifted with magic.  


At the pinnacle, a young woman wearing a loose white shift was waiting for them. Neither Harry nor Draco could conceive how she'd come to be there – the Tor was free of any kind of cover, and surely they ought to have noticed her from the ground if she'd climbed up ahead. But all these questions flew away like Golden Snidgets when she addressed them in a dreamy yet commanding voice.  


"You have come to the appointed place, and brought the promised healing draught."  


"Yes, my lady," both Harry and Draco murmured in unison even though nobody had told them how to reply. It just seemed _right_ , the same way they _knew_ that this mere slip of a girl, with long hair almost as light as Draco's and slightly protuberant blue eyes, represented _Bandia ar Domhan_.  


"Then follow me to the Sacred Well," she said simply. "You must purify yourselves before the sacrifice can be made."  


Bewildered and more than slightly alarmed, they did as ordered. On the way, Draco soundlessly mouthed _"Sacrifice?"_ at Harry, but only received an equally clueless shrug in return. That hadn't been mentioned in the prophecy that had sent them on their quest.  


She led them down again, a shorter, more direct route than they'd used for the ascent. After only a few handsful of minutes, they arrived at a rocky outcropping where clear but most definitely _red_ water sprang from a well to pool in a small basin.  


"Shed your garments," the girl told them. Wordlessly, Harry and Draco complied, piling their clothes into a small heap to one side. Despite it only being late afternoon, the sun couldn't breach the mists swirling all around, and they shivered in the slightly chilly air.  


"Now enter the Chalice Well the way you entered the world."  


Gingerly, Harry dipped one foot into the water. "It's warm," he said, surprised out of the stillness. With raised eyebrows, Draco found it to be true – it was quite pleasant to immerse oneself in the basin, if one managed to ignore that the water's reddish colour made it almost seem as if they were bathing in blood.  


"This is Beltane, a time to celebrate life, a time to create life. The well is everlasting, and eternally the same," she chanted, walking clockwise around the well. At the four quarters, she set down coloured candles Conjured from some unknown place. "Before me, Raphael. I call to the elements of Air and welcome them to my circle. Air, empower my magic. Hail." The yellow candle sprang to life. "Behind me, Gabriel. I call to the elements of Water and welcome them to my circle. Water, empower my magic. Hail." Both candle and flame flickered blue. "On my right hand, Michael; on my left hand, Uriel." Green and red followed, with invocations to Earth and Fire, respectively.  


"Cleanse yourselves so that you may be pure in body as well as intent." With that, she vanished into the lingering mist.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

Silently, Harry and Draco did as they'd been told. Their hands moved gently as they ran them over each other's bodies, mapping out each limb and muscle as they went. Increasingly, they felt themselves tuning in to the silence of well and forest around them.  


Draco paid special attention to the scars Harry bore – the lightning shape on his forehead, where he'd been injured falling off his besom and a splinter had cut him. The oval wound on his chest, where a foe's lance had glanced off his shield in battle, and lastly the deep slash he'd sustained on his wand arm in some unnamed magical fight. In his turn, Harry laved the almost-white hair, the sinewy chest and the strong thighs he loved to have wrapped around his hips, or thrown across his shoulders whenever they'd shared a bed. This time, though, there wasn't anything even remotely erotic about it.  


Done, they stepped out of the water and stood within the circle _Bandia ar Domhan_ had cast, letting the air dry their skin.  


The girl reappeared, indicating that they should put on two simple robes she'd placed next to the basin beforehand. They slipped them over their heads, then turned as one to reach for the chalice and the cask with potion. Draco opened the cask; Harry held up the chalice. Carefully, they filled it for the first time and intoned the prayer they'd composed with Seirios' help.  


"We call upon you, God and Goddess, Archangels, Saints and Elements, in a time of need. We ask your assistance and blessing, for one who is ailing. Albion is ill, and she needs your healing light. We ask you to watch over her and give her strength. Keep her safe from further illness, and protect her body and soul. We ask you, Powers who watch over Man and Realm, to heal her in time of sickness."  


At the completion of each invocation, they poured the potion into the well, where it formed a thin, sparkling trail that first spread across the basin and then disappeared into the ground. There was enough liquid for a second round, then a third. As they filled the chalice with the last bit of potion, barely two swallows, the young woman in white stopped them with a simple gesture of raised hands.  


"You must now share the draught," she told them with a strangely sad smile. "Take hold of the chalice together, and drink deeply so that destiny may take its path."  


They obeyed without hesitation, almost sinking into a trance as their hands joined around the chalice's bowl and was tilted first towards Harry, then Draco.  


"As above, so below," both whispered in unison … and were immediately engulfed in a dome of golden light that emanated from the chalice, silver sparks chasing across the surface like shooting stars in the sky.  


Next to the well, the avatar of the Goddess on Earth watched until the golden dome died down, a lone tear trickling down her cheek. Harry and Draco were lying next to each other, mere inches separated their physical selves. But their souls moved farther and farther apart as the _Hostes in Aeternum_ Curse took hold,.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**  
> 
> 
>   
> _**A/N:** There actually is a King's Head in the city of Wells that was around in the 14th century, even if it only became an inn two hundred years later. _  
> _"Mad mustachioed purple-hued (flobber)worm" and "canker blossom" are curses from Shakespeare's time I happened to find on the starting page of www.dictionary.com while looking up something else. It doesn't quite fit the period, I know, but I thought them too good to pass up. _  
> _The information about Glastonbury Tor and the Chalice Well (yes, there is such a thing!) is factually correct, if slightly adapted to my story needs. (And I swear on all that’s holy that I had NO idea of the existence of the Chalice Well and the legends associated with it until I wrote this scene and researched the Tor! Maybe I’m distantly related to the Trelawneys … ooh, scary, that! ) _  
> _The rituals, incantations and blessings were taken from various places (too many to list ‘em all, sorry) around the 'net, adapted and rewritten to suit my purpose. No disrespect is intended to the original creators._  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**  
> 


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 13**   
__  
1 May, 2014  
**_The Potters' House, Godric's Hollow_ **

"I can't believe Trelawney managed to nail me with a prophecy _again_ ," Harry complained when he finally woke up. It had taken about an hour for the salt to absorb and neutralize the magical dome, and another twenty minutes for him and Draco to regain consciousness.

"Technically, it was three times," Draco muttered, holding his head as he slowly sat up. "Merlin, that was …"

"Intense," Harry finished for him, scooting over and laying a hand on his knee. "And then some. Are you okay, Tenyen?" he asked softly. 

Draco smiled at him in a way that none of their gathered families had ever seen before. 

"I'm fine, Asad." He tried to get to his feet and winced, thinking better of it. "At least I think I will be … eventually."

Everybody exchanged puzzled glances. This was highly unusual behaviour for both of them, and lacked any rhyme or reason.

"What in bloody hell is going on here?" Ron blurted finally. "You touch that old cup, you get stuck in a giant snow globe and nobody knows why or how, hours later Al pitches salt at you via tantrum, and now you're best friends?"

Harry and Draco looked at each other. It was more than that – so much, much more. But of course they couldn't say that – yet. "Er, yeah?" Harry ventured sheepishly. 

"ARGH!" With an exasperated cry, Ron stormed towards the house. If Harry was going to be _that_ way, he needed a drink. Or five.

"Seriously, Harry, what happened to the two of you?" Hermione asked. "The dome, the sparks ‒ was it the chalice, the ritual, _you_ , or what? None of us has _ever_ seen anything like it, not even Bill."

Draco, who by now had made it into a chair with his mother hovering at his elbow, Summoned the near-forgotten chalice to his hand with a flick of his wand. He carefully turned it around several times. "The chalice was cursed," he murmured at last.

"Impossible!" Andromeda, Narcissa and Ginny cried simultaneously. "We've all inspected, or even handled it, and there was absolutely _no_ malevolence about it!" Andromeda was adamant. "Even you agreed on that when we fetched it from the vault; didn’t you, Harry!" 

"And yet it was," Harry said quietly. "Maybe we couldn't sense it because the cup's inherent goodness masked the curse, or maybe because it was cast with good intent, but …"

"What kind of curse, Harry? Do you know?" Bill asked. He'd already given the chalice a cursory examination since the shield dome had collapsed, and hadn't been able to detect a thing.

To his surprise, it was Draco who answered. " _Hostes in Aeternum_."

Narcissa and Andromeda both blanched, and Bill stared at both men in shock. "But – but that's supposed to be a myth!"

"Actually, it's a family secret," Harry sighed. "From that side of the family we all share."

"Huh? We don't share family with Malfoy," Ron protested, well into his second firewhisky.

"Nonsense, of course we do," Molly said reprovingly. "You never knew her because she died when you were quite young, but your grandmother Cedrella was born a Black."

"She's one of the burn holes on the tapestry at Grimmauld, like Andromeda," George grinned.

"So was my grandmother Potter," Harry explained with a slight smile "Dorea, wasn't it?"

"I have a Black ancestor, too," Neville chimed in. "Callidora."

Ron's face flushed alarmingly, then blanched. "You … I … we're all related to the Ferret?" he stammered at last, sending a horrified look at Draco. "Kill me now!"

"RONALD!" Hermione cried, aghast. 

Draco just chuckled. "I must confess I hadn't realized the connection before, but now that I have … try to imagine how _I_ feel." He gave an exaggerated sniff. "Not only are all of my newly-rediscovered relatives Gryffindors, most of them are _gingers_!" Then he spoiled the effect – thereby preventing the outbreak of yet another Wizarding War in miniature – by winking at her.

Hermione just blinked, utterly disarmed, and it took a few seconds for Ron until the Knut finally dropped through the insulating layer of his third Firewhisky. "Oi!" 

George's guffaw and Luna's giggle broke the sudden strained silence, and just like that, everybody more or less collapsed with relieved laughter. The moment of levity was just what was needed, though. Harry and Draco assured their family that they were now well enough to move inside, and the whole group relocated to the Potters' spacious living room. Once there, Molly gently bullied everyone into having a very late dinner.

"None of us has had an appetite because we were so worried about Harry and Draco, and I for one don't want to be interrupted by belly rumbles when they tell us what exactly happened," she declared. "You _are_ going to do that, aren't you." It wasn't a question.

At once, everyone clamoured in agreement. It was loud enough to wake the older children, and soon both Harry and Draco were swarmed by their ecstatic offspring.

"Come on, Harry, tell us already," George prompted at last when they'd eaten. "We're all dying from curiosity, here!" There was a chorus of agreement all around.

Harry and Draco exchanged another of those long, speaking looks that had quite a few persons wondering, then Draco inclined his head minutely in acquiescence and Harry cleared his throat.

"Hermione, you might want to take notes," he said. "And if I could have some water, please?"

A carafe and glass were duly produced while Hermione dashed into Harry's office for a Muggle binder and biro. She had a feeling that quill and parchment wouldn't be efficient enough.

At last, Harry made himself comfortable in his favourite chair, reached for Ginny's hand and began to talk.

"It all started when a lunar eclipse coincided with a triple conjunction of planets, and a student at Hogwarts made a prophecy …"

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

"Wait, _Snape_ was living in the south of Spain? As a Jew among Muslims? And supposed to find a cure for the Black Death?" George exclaimed.

"That's what Headmaster Prewett and Dumbledore thought, yes," Draco confirmed.

"Blimey."

"It didn't work, though, did it?" Andromeda asked. "The Plague still struck Britain."

"Whatever they did worked to a degree," Hermione said. "According to _Hogwarts: A History_ , large parts of the wizarding population managed to escape the disease by relocating to Scotland. After a year, however, bad hygiene and nutrition, along with a lack of understanding of how infection occurred and was spread, caught up with them."

"Could've been worse, though – right?"

Andromeda absently toyed with the wedding band she still wore before her eyes swiveled to her sister and nephew. "Things can always get worse. Luckily, sometimes they also get better."

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

Hermione stared with awe at the chalice, now standing on the mantelpiece and looking quite innocent for all the uproar it had caused. "Are you saying this is … is the _Holy Grail_?" she whispered.

Harry smiled wistfully. "According to legend, the Grail was the cup Jesus used at the Last Supper. Later, after the Crucifixion, Joseph of Arimathea caught some of Jesus’ blood in it before he allegedly brought it to Glastonbury and when he set it down, the Chalice Well sprang from the earth.” He sipped on his water. 

"Do I believe that, though? Not really. We do know the Knights Templar brought _a_ cup from Jerusalem that is _thought_ to have belonged to Joseph of Arimathea, and a man called Bertrand de Blanchefort hid it at Montségur. It's certainly imbued with incredible power, and we all agree it’s overwhelmingly good, so I think it _might_ have been a cup a certain carpenter's son from Nazareth once used. But the true Holy Grail? I don't think so."

"Why not?" Neville wondered.

"Because we're not worthy," Draco replied quietly. "No-one living is, I don't think."

"You may be right," Hermione agreed. "But still, even the _chance_ of it being the Grail …" 

Harry gave her a very boyish grin. "Pretty awesome, huh?"

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

"You … you were lovers?" Ginny asked, her voice gone brittle. The look she gave Draco had nothing on Snape at his vindictive worst.

Harry took her hand in his. "The Harry and Draco of the _past_ were," he corrected gently. “Not us.” 

"But you speak of them as if they were you!"

"It's easier that way, Ginevra," Draco explained. "In reliving their quest, even if it was only in our minds, we effectively _became_ them – but that doesn't mean we _are_."

Ginny still looked dubious.

"Just bear with us, okay?" Harry requested. "We'll sort it out later, once we're done."

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

"So it was Sirius who cast _Hostes in Aeternum_ on the chalice," Narcissa murmured. "I didn't think he had it in him."

“How do you ‒ oh, of course!” Hermione slapped her forehead. “How did I not see it before?!? Mavros is the Greek word for black, so-”

“-so it wasn’t black magic he cast, as in dark or evil, but _Black_ magic. Family magic.” Arthur shook his head in wonder. “That’s probably one reason why it was never detected.”

"I just can't believe Sirius, of all people, went for that whole 'Greater Good' nonsense," Harry grumped. "As if he, and I, haven’t had enough of it from Dumbledore. Er, _Albus_ Dumbledore, that is."

"Not our Sirius, either, Harry," Andromeda reminded him. "And at least he had the sense to modify the curse."

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

“I wonder what I did to the chalice,” Hermione mused.

“Something with runes, and the inscription, I think. Let’s have a look.” Harry peered closely at the etched vines on the inside. “Yeah, now that I know what to look for, I can see it,” he said. “Only, I have no idea what it means.”

“That’s right, you never took Ancient Runes, did you?”

“Nope. _Someone_ convinced me to go for Divination instead.” Harry scowled half-seriously at Ron, who tried to look innocent and failed. “An easy grade, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. What that someone _didn’t_ tell me, though, was that the batty teacher would predict my early and gruesome death at least once a week!”

“Hey, it wasn’t my fault that Trelawney’s gift apparently only manifested when it concerned you,” Ron laughed, along with the others, at Harry’s face. “Besides, you proved her wrong time and again ‒ _and_ got some pretty cool stories out of it to tell to the kids!”

“It’s not so cool when a prophecy takes away what you’ll miss most,” Harry said quietly. “I’d rather have had my parents than a great story.”

He was interrupted by a squeal from Hermione. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I _did_ that,” she gushed. “Look, here are the runes you’d expect ‒ healing, protection, purification and whatever else you’d expect. But there’s also Thurisaz for self-discipline and clearing out a bad situation, and here’s Raitho for bringing about change, to reconnect. And that’s only the ones in Futhark ‒ I haven’t even _begun_ to decipher the Ogham!”

“That’s … nice, Hermione,” Harry said weakly, having no idea what she was on about. Which was pretty much par for the course.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

"You made a very convincing Green Man, Longbottom," Draco complimented Neville. "Completely in your element."

"Thanks – I think," Neville replied, looking rather bemused.

"And Luna was perfect as the embodiment of the Goddess on Earth," Harry added, smiling fondly at her.

“Thank you, Harry," she said, her voice as dreamy as ever. “I’ve always been rather fond of _Bandia ar Domhan_ , and now I know why.” Her eyes, however, sparkled with mischief. "One thing is a pity, though."

"What's that, dear?" Molly asked. 

"If I can't seem to catch sight of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack in all the years Daddy and I have been looking, why can't I at least have a memory of seeing Harry and Draco naked?"

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

"That's when the curse – compulsion, whatever – took hold, and it was all over," Harry concluded their story at last. "We … well, _they_ left the Tor, and went their separate ways."

"Were they enemies after that?" Hermione wondered.

"I don't think so," Draco mused, deep in thought. "I think … I think they just drifted apart, leading different lives. Became indifferent to each other."

"They stopped being lovers," Harry said. "They returned to Wells, collected their belongings and never saw each other again."

"They obviously found wives and had children," Arthur reminded them. "Or the Malfoys would have died out during the Hundred Years' War, your branch of the Peverels would never have become Potters …" 

"Yes – and now we know why there's never been a Potter-Malfoy marriage, or even partnership," Andromeda said. "I'd wondered sometimes. As interlocked as the wizarding world is, it was unusual, to say the least."

Draco laughed suddenly. "I just remembered – our land in Wiltshire, where the Manor now stands? That was given to us by the Plantagenets, in thanks for some unspecified 'services to the Crown'. The original deed is dated August 1348."

"What about the Potters, Harry? Did they get land, too?" Ron asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes – and quite a good chunk of Godric’s Hollow it is, too. I should look up the details, I suppose … the Chantry Farm down the hill was part of it, there was a manor house or villa, an old abbey called Griffin Priors … this cottage here actually used to be the Gatekeeper’s lodge, I think.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

“I found something else,” Hermione said. She’d continued to examine the goblet as the others talked, even going so far as to make rubbings of the outside script now that she was done with note-taking.

“More than the runes?”

“Yes. Look.” She showed them the tiny script she’d found and deciphered, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“Your Hermione of the past actually managed to put that time limit on it that she wanted ‒ and according to that, you and Draco are the very _first_ Malfoy and Potter who could break _Hostes in Aeternum_!”

“How so?” Draco sat up curiously. “Because we happen to have the same names?”

“My name is just Harry, thank you very much,” Harry grumbled. “If you even _think_ about calling me Hereweald, I’ll hex you!” 

“No, it’s something else ‒ it’s in the inscription on the outside.” She showed her rubbings to the others. “See here ‒ you’d expect the Evangelists and saints, but she actually added seven more names, among them Lampetis, the lustrous one; o Niketes, the victor; Palai baskanos, the ancient sorceror … and lastly the Greek word 'psefisato’, which means ‘to count’, among other things. If you apply Arithmancy to these names, what do you get?” 

Draco got it first. ”They each have a numerological value of 666,” he said slowly. “And 666 is …”

“The Number of the Beast, as described in the Apocalypse, yes. But that’s not the pertinent point.”

“Then what is? Forgive me, Hermione, but I’m a bit knackered from our mental time-travelling; please spare me the quiz?” Harry requested.

His best friend and sister-in-law smiled. “How about a simple maths question, then?”

“If you must.” Harry gave a long-suffering sigh.

“What‘s 2014 minus 1348?”

Harry did a quick mental calculation. “Six hundred and sixty-si‒ oh my.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “Today ‒ well, yesterday, it’s past midnight ‒ was exactly 666 years after the curse came into effect … which also happens to be the time limit that had been put on it. ‘The beast’s years must pass’ ‒ Trelawney said so right in her second prophecy.”

“‘Born as the seventh month dies’,” Harry whispered, paling as he suddenly saw the parallel. 

“Exactly ‒ it’s the same kind of woolly, yet oddly specific timestamp. It _had_ to be you and Draco.” 

“It must have been fate,” said Narcissa, who’d listened to their tale with growing wonder. Everybody seemed to be in agreement with this summary, to go by the nods and murmurs of assent.

And Draco and Harry, as the ones who'd had to live it all, just looked at each other and said what was very much on their minds.

“Sometimes, Fate’s a bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(  
> **
> 
> **_A/N:_ ** As usual, my thanks go to GMWWemyss for permission to use his layout of the Potters’ ancestral seat in and around Godric’s Hollow, here.  
> Information about various theories and interpretations of “666” (mentioned in Revelations 13:15-18) comes from Wikipeda; the numerological values of the cited names were arrived at (not by me!) via a method called Gematria.
> 
> **  
> )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**


	15. Chapter 15

**Epilogue**   
__  
1 September, 2019  
**_Platform 9 ¾_ **

“Bye, Mum! Bye, Dad!” The redheaded girl waved frantically out the open window as the Hogwarts Express started chugging northwards. 

“Bye, Lily,” Harry called, waving back. Further towards the rear of the train, he could barely make out his oldest sitting in a compartment with his friends, far away from his siblings. At fourteen, James thought saying lengthy good-byes to his parents was terribly uncool. _*Or whatever else kids call it these days,*_ Harry thought with a wry smile. Although he had to admit, even if only to himself, that for a lofty Fourth-Year, going to Hogwarts probably had become Old Hat by now.

“Thank Merlin Al and Rose aren’t that jaded yet,” Ginny murmured into his ear as she, too, was waving to their children. The Third-Year kids at least still admitted to their excitement at leaving for school.

“Yeah,” Harry said, squeezing Ginny’s waist gently. “Another first 'last' for us.” Which made him feel just a tad nostalgic.

“And it’ll hopefully stay that way until they’ve all passed their N.E.W.T.s and are out of our hair for good,” Ginny replied with some asperity. “I’ve had it with all the tantrums and hectic and drama!”

Harry only laughed at her. “You love it, and you know it,” he teased. “You wouldn’t be Ginny Weasley-Potter if you didn’t.”

“Yeah, well …”

A muted buzz coming from Ginny’s coat pocket interrupted whatever she was going to say. Frowning, she pulled out a small, rectangular metal flipcase and flicked it open with a practised twist to reveal a new and improved version of the Marauders’ communications mirror. 

“Yes, Gwenog?”

While Ginny took her call, Harry marvelled again at how the Marauders continued to shape his life. He’d found Sirius’ notes in the Black vault only a year ago, and had shown them to George. Once that worthy had understood the concept and a surprisingly technologically-inclined Theo Nott became involved, the ‘Mobile Mirror-Fone’, or MMF, was now all the rage in the wizarding world. It also was making all of them a bloody fortune. 

Ginny snapped her MMF shut and turned to Harry with a sigh. “I have to go ‒ Gwenog Jones just told me I can have an exclusive with the Harpies, but only if I meet her in Holyhead within the hour.”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine,” he assured her. “Work comes first.”

“Doesn’t it always,” Ginny sighed, but smiled when she stretched up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “See you for dinner at the Hollow?” 

“As always on Tuesdays,” he confirmed, returning the kiss. “Don’t Splinch yourself.”

“You, too.” And with a sharp _‘crack’_ , she Apparated away.

Harry stood for a moment, searching out the tiny red speck of the Express as it disappeared from view. He didn’t even flinch when someone stepped up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“You might have said hello, you know. Ginny wouldn’t have minded.”

“Sending Scorpius off by myself was bad enough,” Draco replied. “I didn’t need another scene.”

“Ginny doesn’t make scenes,” Harry protested.

“No, she’s just awfully fast with her Bat-Bogey Hex,” Draco muttered, then deliberately changed the topic. “One of these days, you’ll have to let me in on the secret of how you’re keeping a civil relationship with your Ex. Merlin knows, Astoria and I could use the help.” 

“I didn’t think she was that bad when she dropped Scorp off with us last month,” Harry said. “Stayed for tea, and everything.”

“Only because Scorpius asked her to. If there’s one thing I can’t fault Astoria for, it’s her dedication to and love for our son.“

“She’s a great mother,” Harry nodded, then linked his arm with Draco’s as they left the platform and stepped out into King’s Cross Station. “Just as you’re a great father … and husband.”

Draco stopped abruptly, nearly crashing into a passer-by. “Don’t say that to me,” he hissed.

“Why not? It’s true.”

“Not if you don’t want to be kissed senseless in public, then,” Draco amended, a reluctant smile playing around his mouth. "What will Mother, Aunt Andromeda and Granger say if I leave them alone with all the research on the Black legacy we've been doing for the past five years?"

Determined that no other artefact should ever create as much chaos as the chalice, Andromeda had started going through the families' heirlooms buried in the Gringotts vaults with a vengeance. Soon Narcissa had been recruited to help, and as Hermione could never resist a juicy research project, it was all but inevitable that she eventually joined their efforts, with Draco pitching in whenever possible.

"You _could_ call her Hermione by now, you know," Harry scolded lightly. "I know she's offered several times already." 

"I will – as soon as Weasley stops calling me 'ferret' behind my back," Draco replied without heat.

Harry rolled his eyes in fond exasperation at the oft-repeated argument. "Not before doomsday, then. You're mental, the lot of you." He smiled to show that he didn't really mind, and changed the subject. "Speaking of the Black Legacy, have you discovered yet how we could experience stuff we weren't even there for?"

"No, but you could always come by and help. Perhaps we could revisit our _private_ account of a certain visit to Malik the barber's establishment?" Draco's smile had turned positively wicked. 

“Mmm, don’t tempt me,” Harry murmured, a familiar flame lighting up his eyes. “Unfortunately, work calls ‒ let me take a raincheck, as the Americans say? And postpone it until tonight?”

“I may have to cancel altogether if you don’t stop using the uncouth expressions those bloody Colonials have taught you during the last ICW conference,” Draco grumbled, but let his expression soften as he bent a couple of inches and brushed a chaste kiss across Harry’s lips. “To be continued, Asad.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Tenyen,” Harry replied, a smile on his face as he watched Draco go before he left for the Ministry himself. As was so often the case nowadays since the Eurostar terminal had opened at King's Cross/St. Pancras station, the old Apparition point was too crowded to safely use without being seen, so Harry had to make a choice between taking the Tube, hailing a taxi or walking at least part of the way. 

He flicked his wrist to check his watch for time and felt his smile widen as he caught sight of the broad golden wedding band that Draco had put on his finger fifteen months ago. Deciding that he'd have just enough time to make it on foot if he didn't dawdle, Harry turned towards the Euston Road exit, into the early-autumn sunshine. As he walked briskly towards Whitehall, his thoughts drifted back to events of the more recent past – namely those that had led to all their changed circumstances.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

Following that momentous Beltane, the first major change in their lives had been Draco and Astoria's divorce, which hadn't been easy on the Malfoys, but they'd eventually come through it with help from friends and family. The next summer had seen the joint families take a vacation trip to Granada, which had – at the kids' request – been done the Muggle way, just like the Harry, Draco and Ron of the past. Of course, travelling in rented, lavishly-equipped motorhomes and staying at rather luxurious campgrounds was a far cry from the privations their fourteenth-century counterparts had had to endure, but Draco had grumbled and complained about the inconveniences and restrictions on the use of magic just as much as his namesake knight had done.

Harry was entirely too gleeful in reminding him of that fact.

The journey was both an exercise in nostalgia and of rediscovery. When they reached Glastonbury Tor at the end, it was obvious that Draco and Harry had become friends, their relationship as secure and fast as any Harry had formed with Hermione or the Weasleys. Neither man cared to speculate whether it was lingering sentiment from reliving their ancestors' memories, or the breaking of the Black family curse; they were just deeply grateful it had happened at all. 

This friendship helped sustain Harry when his own marriage disintegrated after James started his first year at Hogwarts. 

Harry had fought for his family – Ginny was the mother of his children, they'd been friends before they became lovers, and he didn't want to lose the Weasleys, either. For her part, Ginny had done her utmost to keep the promise she'd made to herself when Harry and Draco had been trapped by the ancient magic of _Hostes in Aeternum_ that Beltane evening. In the end, though, all their best efforts weren't enough. They'd grown apart instead of together, and both decided to draw a clean line so they could at least remain friends rather than turn into enemies.

And once Harry was ready to move on, Draco was already there, waiting for him.

**¨·..·¨·..·¨·..·¨**

They'd got married on Beltane last year – when else? – and settled into their new lives with surprising ease. Sometimes, when he woke in the middle of the night with 'his' Draco wrapped as tightly around him as that other Draco had ever been around Harry-of-the-past, Harry couldn't help but wonder if this wasn't how their lives _should_ have been like, both back then, or now … if not for the meddling of well-meaning, but sorely misguided friends, teachers and mentors.

Every time, Harry's eyes would stray towards the two small emeralds set into his wedding band and he'd smile – just as he was doing now when he caught sight of the twinkling green gems in their bed of gold as he raised his hand to punch in the Head Auror's access code in the old phone box outside the Ministry. His smile widened even more as he thought of the words engraved in both his and Draco's ring. 

There had ever only been one choice of inscription.  
_  
Amore in Aeternum._ Love will last forever.

###  **Finite Incantatem**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**  
> 
> 
>   
> __**A/N:** (Last one, I promise!)  
>  _It would be remiss of me if I didn't acknowledge books I've read in the last *mumblemumble* years that have inspired me to write this story, and from which some small elements have made their way into it:_  
>  _Juliette Benzoni, Cathérine et le temps d'aimer (#4 in series); (English title 'Catherine and a Time for Love')_  
>  _Anne et Serge Golon, Indomptable Angélique (#3 in series); (English title 'Angelique and the Sultan/in Barbary')_  
>  _Frank Yerby, An Odour of Sanctity_  
>  _Sir Walter Scott, Ivanhoe_  
>  _Katherine Kurtz, Lammas Night and The Templar Treasure_  
>  _Noah Gordon, The Physician_  
>  _Leigh and David Eddings, Demon Lord of Karanda (The Malloreon #3)_  
>  _I have tried to avoid outright plagiarizing to the best of my ability, and I'd like to thank all authors for the pleasure their works have given (and continue to give) me._
> 
>  
> 
> **)x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x( )x(**  
> 


End file.
